


My Sweetest Friend

by Roehrborn



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But They're Not Friends, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Future Fic, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abusive Relationship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Canon, Reconciliation, Switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 65,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: This is a terrible idea.  Words cannot express how awful of an idea this is.  But Oswald knows he’ll never have Ed any other way.“If we're going to do this,” Oswald says firmly, “there should be some rules.”~Four years after their friendship imploded in hatred and heartbreak, the Riddler has a terribly tempting suggestion: sex, no strings attached.





	1. How it Begins

**Author's Note:**

> My fucking hand slipped, haha, oops. (Prompt: [“If I told you that after all these years, I still dislike you, would you believe me?”](http://witterprompts.tumblr.com/post/155583504435/if-i-told-you-that-after-all-these-years-i-still))
> 
> I’m writing my favorite trope! I'm so excited!! :D Hope you enjoy!  
> ~R
> 
> PS: I promise Oswald calling Ed “Nygma” won’t last. I imagine it’s probably annoying in the narration but anyway… he’ll be back to calling him “Ed” soon enough.

It’s several hours after closing, and Oswald sits at the bar of the Iceberg Lounge, scribbling away at his supply order forms while sipping a glass of wine. The dawn is just beginning to reach over the horizon with pink-orange fingers when Oswald hears a creak and a thud coming from the back room.

He glances up briefly, unconcerned; Selina’s cats have been known to get loose back there and cause a ruckus. When there’s no following sound, he tips his head back down and considers -- yes to the 25-year aged bottle of imported whiskey? Hell, it’s Gotham, some cocky upstart will pay for it.

“ _Os_ wald,” a familiar voice says, high-pitched and theatrical. “Fancy finding _you_ here.”

The pen in his hand creaks under the sudden strength of his grip. “Well it _is_ my club,” Oswald says, voice dripping sarcasm. He turns his head up to meet the other man’s eyes, glare baleful. “And I thought I told you to call me Penguin, _Nygma_.”

Nygma grins at him. “Touché, Mr. Penguin.”

Oswald slams his hand down against the counter, the pen casing cracking with the force. “ _Just_ Penguin, Nygma, _if_ you please,” he snarls, blood thundering in his ears.

“Ah,” Nygma says, voice still uncomfortably high-pitched. His eyes dart to the floor, and then back up to meet Oswald’s, with new determination. “ _Here’s_ a riddle for you, Penguin--”

“Oh, God,” Oswald mutters disconsolately, bypassing his glass of wine and reaching straight for the bottle. “Don’t tell me you’re roping me into one of your ridiculous schemes, Nygma. I don’t have the time _or_ the patience.” He takes a swig from the bottle. Despite his careless attitude, however, he keeps his eyes peeled on Nygma as he approaches.

Nygma holds up a single finger, tucking the other hand behind his back. “If you have me, you want to share me. If you share me, you haven’t got me. What am I?”

“Why do I _care_?” Oswald demands. He sets the wine bottle back down on the counter. “Nygma, you’ve burst in here _hours_ after closing, and I don’t suppose you’ve got a wallet tucked somewhere in that -- ridiculous outfit of yours --” His customary suit is tight-fitting nearly to the point of obscenity, but Nygma manages to pull it off somehow. Oswald wonders bitterly how the man had found the time and energy to become more fit than he’d been six years ago. “--so I don’t believe you’re paying me for my _consulting_ work--”

“It’s a secret,” Nygma says, not sounding at all disappointed. “I have a secret for _you_ , Just the Penguin, in exchange for a _teensy_ little favor next,” he glances at his wrist, where, Oswald notes, there’s no watch, “ _Thurs_ day.”

“What’s the favor?” Oswald asks brusquely.

Nygma’s expression falters, his eyebrows drawing together and the smile dropping one or two notches. _What_ , Oswald thinks sourly, _did he expect applause_?

Oswald watches as Nygma clenches his hands into fists and releases them. A slight frown graces his lips -- was that a nervous tic? What is Nygma nervous about? -- But his thoughts are interrupted by Nygma’s performance voice, just as over-the-top as before.

“ _I_ have a little plan for our friend the Bat, and I found the _per_ fect stage setting--”

A wave of fury rushes over Oswald, and he lunges to his feet from the bar stool. “Absolutely not! Never in a thousand years!”

Nygma blanches underneath his ridiculous bowler hat. “Oswa--”

“ _Penguin_!” Oswald shrieks, baring his teeth.

“Pe--”

“ _No one_ touches the lounge! Not _you_! Not the Bat! _No one_!”

“Not the lounge!” Nygma protests, and Oswald notes that his voice is back into his normal pitch range. “I didn’t mean the lounge!”

Oswald sucks in a deep breath, trying to slow his heart rate. “So help me, Nygma, if you don’t--”

“It’s an old warehouse of yours,” Nygma says in a rush, “on the southside docks -- you don’t use it for anything anymore, I just wanted you to know I _knew_ that so you don’t take it as a declaration -- I’m not looking to fight you.”

Oswald stares at Nygma in stunned disbelief. The seconds drag on slowly, and eventually, Nygma starts fiddling with a large emerald signet ring on his right thumb.

“If you think,” Oswald says finally, voice low and livid, “that after that fucking display I’m going to shrug my shoulders and say, ‘Sure, Nygma, whatever you need,’ you have grossly mistaken my character. If you destroy any of my fucking property in the next three _months_ I’ll take it as a declaration of war.”

He’s bluffing -- of course he’s bluffing. He and Nygma can’t have a real “war”. Oswald employs people to do the dirty work for him; Nygma enjoys doing it all himself. It’s not that one would outclass the other; but Nygma would find the war boring, and Oswald would find it too costly in resources. Only the gravest of personal insults would incite Oswald to start a gang war with a loose cannon like “the Riddler”.

And Nygma has already given him the grossest insult of his life, and yet walked free.

He must know that.

Oswald watches as Nygma’s lips twitch, and then he says, in a much quieter and calmer voice: “What can I do to change your mind?”

Oswald snorts, automatically, and waves a flippant hand in his direction. “Get down on your knees and _beg_ me, you arrogant ass.” He grabs the bottle of wine and takes another deep swig, bitterly savoring the rush of endorphins.

And that, Oswald is sure, is that; Nygma will go off and do whatever he wants, and Oswald will fail to retaliate, and everything will return to the status quo. He feels a reluctant wave of disappointment. He's getting so tired, now, of these games they play, the constant antagonism. But every time he sees Nygma’s face, he's reminded of- _anyway_. Lips downturned, Oswald takes another swig of wine, when the rush of air by his side indicates movement.

He turns, setting the wine bottle back on the counter. It’s good he did, because the next moment, his hand loosens reflexively in shock, his mouth dropping open. “Wha--” he gasps, heart once again racing in his chest, pounding against his ribs.

Nygma is kneeling in front of him, looking up at Oswald with unreadable eyes. “Please, Penguin?” he asks in a quiet voice.

A wave of helpless arousal crashes over Oswald. He bites his lip, fighting against the automatic reaction to seeing Ed-- no, no, (he had been doing so well) _Nygma_ , staring up at him with those dark, dark eyes, and something seems to click in that familiar face. Nygma’s eyes narrow just slightly in calculation. Oswald’s stomach is all butterflies and his heart all dread.

Then he feels Nygma’s hand, hot like burning coals, resting on his thigh. “Os-Penguin?” Nygma corrects himself, voice throaty.

Oswald hisses out a breath between his teeth.

“May I..?” Nygma continues, his hand sliding slowly up Oswald’s thigh.

For a moment, Oswald rests on the precipice: the other man’s eyes, shadowed and dark, gaze up at him; his hand on Oswald’s thigh; his mouth parted, just barely, revealing the pink of his tongue.

And in a wave of anticipatory regret and desperation, Oswald gives in.

He nods, closing his eyes against Nygma’s gaze, shielding himself from his eyes which seem capable of penetrating his deepest inner thoughts - eyes which know him far too well, even after all this time. Nygma’s hand slides up the juncture of Oswald’s leg and hip, feeling heavy even through the thick material of his suit pants. A helpless groan escapes Oswald as the other man’s hand finally reaches his already-hardening cock.

Oswald tucks his head into his shoulder, covering his mouth with one fist. He can feel the blush on his cheeks deepening as the hand slowly teases the length of him through his pants, and his hips buck forward involuntarily into the touch. The hand pulls away slightly, staying feather-light against him. He grits his teeth, frustration boiling over.

In a sudden violent movement, he slams his arm down on the bar counter and glares down, teeth bared. “Will you-!”

Before he can continue, the other man has leaned in and pressed his open mouth against the line of his cock, warmth and dampness surrounding him.

“ _Fuck_!” Oswald snarls, hand clenching onto the edge of the bar counter.

He can feel the lips against him shift into a smile, the nose pressing against him intimately, and an angry whine escapes him. “ _Please_ ,” he hisses through his teeth.

Finally, _finally_ , Nygma shifts up, pulling his head away and reaching up with both hands to unfasten the fly of Oswald’s pants. Oswald shifts up, giving him the room to release his erection from the confines of his clothing. Nygma strokes a hand down the length of him, hand warm, and Oswald gapes down at the sight of that familiar hand around him.

Then Nygma looks up, his eyes very dark and very wide, and a shock runs through Oswald as their eyes make contact. For a heartbeat, everything is still, the only sound in the room Oswald’s labored breaths.

Eyes still meeting his, Nygma lowers his head and wraps his lips around the head of Oswald’s cock.

The moan leaps from Oswald’s lips, loud and desperate. His free hand covers his mouth, on instinct, the rest of the moan muffled by his hand. Nygma seems to take that as a challenge; his eyes glimmer in the dark of the room and the tip of his tongue presses against the slit in Oswald’s cock. Oswald bites down on his fist to keep from screaming, the delicate tongue over the most sensitive part of him lighting up his nerves like fire.

Nygma keeps him there for endless moments, the laps of his tongue against the tip of Oswald’s erection burning in his blood, overwhelming his senses. Helplessly he reaches out, nearly burying his hand into Nygma’s hair before he recalls himself.

Finally, then, the other man ends his torture, flattening his tongue along the underside of Oswald's cock and sliding down, the tight ring of his lips circling him. The sudden wet heat is overwhelming after the prolonged teasing, and Oswald feels the muscles of his stomach tightening in anticipation. He whimpers, breathily, staring down at the familiar face bobbing in his lap, swallowing him down again and again. _Fuck_ , Oswald thinks, dazed, _it’s_ Ed.

The rush of orgasm floods over him, and as he comes he bites down on his sleeve, harshly, determined not to let the name escape his lips. Nygma’s mouth works over him, swallowing his come greedily, hands resting on Oswald’s thighs to hold him in place.

As the last waves of arousal leave him, rendering him tired and spent, gripping the bar counter desperately, Nygma laps up the few drops of come that escaped, his tongue warm and comforting against the over-stimulated skin. Oswald shuts his eyes and swallows harshly, cheeks blazing with heat. He feels Nygma’s hands tucking him away and fastening his fly once again, and then the shift in air as the other man rises to his feet beside Oswald.

Oswald turns away to hide his face, opening his eyes to hyper-focus on the bottle of wine still beside him on the bar counter. He picks it up and takes a deep sip, eyes unfocused, and stares at the empty space behind the counter, where the bartender would usually stand.

“Um,” Nygma says, quietly.

He refuses to look at the other man, staring instead at the dark wine bottle clutched in his grip. “You can use the warehouse,” he says, mouth sour like he’s been drinking cheap wine, not the top-shelf aged burgundy that actually fills the bottle.

“Penguin.”

Oswald frowns. “Yes?”

Nygma doesn’t say anything. Oswald feels his gaze, heavy, on the side of his face. “Well?” Oswald snaps, finally.

“Thank you,” Nygma says, voice soft. Then he straightens, squaring his shoulders, and says cheerily: “Keep an eye on Friday’s paper!” before turning to go.

Oswald waits until he’s sure Nygma is walking away, then glances up at the other man through his lashes. Nygma’s walk is calm, assured, his shoulders broader than they used to be. With narrowed eyes, Oswald watches Nygma disappear out into the night, hand still desperately clutching his bottle of wine. When Nygma’s finally out of sight, he finishes the bottle in one long pull.

And that's how it begins.

~

Oswald hates himself for it almost instantly, but the embarrassment doesn’t hit him until the evening, as he’s opening the club for business yet again, glass of red in hand and customary pleasant smile on his face. He wishes he had looked down - he may have died of embarrassment, but he needed to know - to see if Nygma had been aroused, too, or if it was just Oswald, as it had always been--

He swallows harshly. Ivy enters the club, her smile wavering as she catches sight of Oswald’s no doubt ghastly expression. He tries to reassure her with a subtle headshake. She pouts at him and points to the back office, and Oswald inclines his head in acceptance.

He feels dirty, used, and he _hates_ that feeling. There’s nothing wrong with sex, he knows; he’s never had a problem with it, so long as the parties were all consenting. It’s the fact that it was Nygma, and that it appeared to be some sort of _manipulation_ tactic. Why did he never try it before? Oswald wonders cynically. It would’ve been even _more_ effective a few years ago; with his broken heart so raw, Oswald probably would have given _anything_ \--

“Ooo, you’re _hopeless_ tonight. What happened?”

“Cat,” Oswald says, strangely breathless. “A pleasure. I thought you were out of town.”

She claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t bother, buddy. Ivy told me you look like shit, and she was right. Let me handle the meet-and-greets. You go sit in the back with Ivy and tell her all your problems - you know she’s good at that.”

Oswald smiles flatly. “Thank you, Cat, but I can’t--”

She leans in, grasping him by both shoulders. “You can and you will.”

Her eyes bore into his, glowing amber and half-lidded, feline. A quiet kind of sympathy burns in their depths. He forgets, sometimes, all that she’s seen. She’s young, much younger than him, but she’s no innocent.

“Yes, I think I will,” he agrees, giving her a brusque smile. He tosses back his glass of wine and deposits the empty glass on a server’s tray as she passes by.

An answering smile quirks at Cat’s lips. “Ivy’s waiting. Don’t worry, I can handle myself around the rich and aimless.”

“I know you can,” Oswald says. Then, with a conspiratorial smile, he adds: “Don’t you still see the Wayne heir on weekends?”

“Watch it, birdbrain,” she says, but her voice is more affectionate than threatening.

~

As soon as she sees him, Ivy rises to her feet. “What happened, Ozzie? You look awful!”

Oswald sighs gustily and shuts his eyes, leaning back against the closed door with a sudden wave of exhaustion. “I … it’s a long story.”

He feels a gentle hand against his elbow, and opens his eyes to see Ivy looking sympathetically at him. “Come and sit down and tell me everything,” she says, voice precociously demanding, and Oswald finds a fond smile on his face as he complies wearily.

He drops his head into his hands once he’s seated on the couch, rubbing his eyes without consideration to his makeup. Ivy tsks as he raises his head back up. She pulls a handkerchief from somewhere and captures his face with her free hand, wiping underneath his eyes delicately.

“Something happened today,” Ivy guesses, voice contemplative. “Because you were fine when I left at two or three last night.”

“Yes,” Oswald says, giving in. “It was a bit after dawn. The--” he swallows against the lump in his throat. Ivy will know, better than most, how much this means. “Nygma came, asking for a favor.”

“Oh…” Ivy says, voice pitying. “What was the favor?”

“It doesn’t matter, it won’t cost me anything. But he - well we were arguing--” He’s not really sure how to explain it. Even now, he feels like he has no idea how _it_ happened. “--he decided--”

Ivy drops the handkerchief and holds Oswald’s face in her hands, forcing eye contact. “Just say it, Pengy.”

“We may have engaged in - sexual activity.”

“Oh? Oh!” Ivy exclaims. “That’s, I mean, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“No. No, I mean, there was nothing behind it. It was … a favor.”

“Are you sure?” Ivy asks.

Oswald smiles ruefully to himself; Ivy is such an optimistic person. “I’m sure, Ivy. The favor he asked for wasn’t much, but I refused him because - frankly, because he upset me - and he just sort of - in exchange - he didn’t mean anything by it, Ivy. I’m certain.”

“I could find out, you know,” Ivy says. “I could whammy him.”

“No,” Oswald says firmly. “There will be no whammy-ing.”

She shrugs, innocently, and Oswald fixes her with a serious look. “Ivy,” he says, “I don’t want you to whammy him. Ever. I will never again be the one to trespass on his trust.”

“That’s noble of you,” she says, a little dubiously.

“No,” Oswald says. “It’s _wise_. If we ever end up at odds, I’ll know my conscience is clear. I’ll have nothing to stay my hand. Unlike _last_ time.”

Ivy looks at him with an expression like pity, and Oswald scowls in return. “It’s true,” he snaps, and she smiles wryly but doesn’t argue. Instead, she reaches for the wine decanter on Oswald’s desk. Before she can touch it, he snatches it up and away from her in a movement so practiced it feel rehearsed.

“You’re not twenty-one yet--” he begins.

“--oh, come on, Pengy, I’m almost your age,” she argues, playful smile at her lips.

“ _Physically_ , yes, but you just turned - eighteen, was it? I don’t care what you get up to with those other villains, but you won’t be drinking under my roof.”

An affectionate smile breaks over her face, and she leans forward to pat Oswald’s cheek. “Aw, look at you. You’re like my dad, or something.”

Oswald makes a disgusted face as he sets the decanter back down with a _thunk_. “Please, I hate children.”

“You say that--” she sing-songs. “Okay,” she concedes, “my super-protective older brother. Does that work?”

“Yes,” Oswald says tartly. “And you’re my irritatingly astute younger sister.”

Smiling at the familiar argument, she leans in and kisses him on the forehead, softly. “Don’t worry, I haven’t got my lipstick on,” she says.

“Thank god for small favors,” Oswald mutters, but he can’t hold back the smile on his face.

“Now get out there, Pengy, and show the world someone they don’t wanna mess with.”

Oswald rises to his feet, grabbing his cane with his free hand and shifting his weight onto his good leg slowly. “Thank you, Ivy,” he says, gently, and she smiles up at him. Oswald will never stop being grateful for her, he thinks. She’s a perfect sibling, the kind he had imagined as a lonely only child. With a last fond smile, he turns on his heel and strides out onto the club floor, ready for whatever the night will bring.


	2. The Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind comments. <3 It’s super motivating, and I’m having a lot of fun working on this one!
> 
> No Ivy in this one, but she’ll be back next chapter! Meanwhile we have Selina. :)  
> (Sorry in advance but I lOVE CATS OKAY.)  
> ~R

The week goes by without incident. Finally, the promised Thursday passes, and Oswald is not at all surprised when the headlines on Friday are screaming “Riddler Strikes Again!” and “Caped Crusader Caught Careless!”

Oswald is hardly a fan of the flashy, melodramatic work that Nygma does, but he, of all people, can appreciate good press. A private smile quirks at his lips. After all this time, Nygma is as much a showboat as he ever was.

For a moment, Oswald is tempted to cut the newspaper article out. What’s the harm? No one can get into his living quarters; or, at least, no one who’s tried has ever _survived_. There’s no chance of anyone finding out. He could keep it secretly, only taking it out when he has one of his bad days, when his mind fixates on Nygma and refuses to focus on anything else--

No. No.

That’s exactly why Oswald has his rules: he can’t trust himself otherwise.

Slowly, deliberately, he folds up the newspaper and drops it in the recycling bin on his way out.

~

Oswald keeps odd hours now that his main work revolves around the club. His mid-morning is most people’s late afternoon, sun low and orange in the sky.

He lives above the lounge, in a penthouse suite; he doesn’t shop for his own groceries; he has low-level employees to take care of most of his errands; so every so often, Oswald makes a point to take his umbrella cane and put on his most comfortable, yet presentable, shoes, and simply go for a walk through the streets of the city he loves.

Autumn is just beginning to transition to winter; the nights are growing longer and colder in Gotham. As he steps out on the street, Oswald suppresses a shiver and stretches his leg briefly, bracing himself against his umbrella.

The Iceberg Lounge is located in a very affluent neighborhood; the Gotham Museum of Art is located just six blocks west, and Oswald shades his eyes against the slowly setting sun before taking off in the direction of the building.

The museum has a lovely garden walk, and Oswald makes three circuits of the path before the sun begins to disappear behind the cityscape. He checks his watch, and, seeing it’s nearing dinnertime, decides to head back to the club. The walk back seems shorter than the walk there, and he’s only a few blocks away from the Iceberg when he hears sounds of a quiet struggle and then the familiar _thud_ of a body hitting the floor. His hand shifts grip on his umbrella cane, finger sliding over the hidden trigger embedded in the handle. Slowly, Oswald lifts the umbrella up, aiming the barrel before him. He walks, as quietly as he can manage, to the entrance of the alley.

“Hell- _o_!”

With a scowl, Oswald allows the umbrella to fall.

There, in a blindingly green suit, stands “the Riddler”. At his feet is a young man wearing ragged clothes, knife held loosely in one of his hands. The young man is staring up at Nygma, eyes wide with terror, and as Oswald watches, the knife falls from his hand with a clatter.

“I didn’t realize you’d stooped to assaulting petty thieves,” Oswald says snidely. His heart is racing at the sight of Nygma and he forces himself, with some difficulty, to pretend as if nothing has changed.

Nygma grins widely at him. “You’re out of practice, Penguin. He was about to mug you.”

A wave of offense passes over Oswald - does Nygma truly think him so helpless? Why waste time _acknowledging_ him, then? “And you think he’d _succeed_?” Oswald demands.

“I didn’t know it was you, Mr. Penguin! I’m sorry!” the boy blurts, voice tearful and shaky.

Nygma grins down at the boy cruelly. “Not a mistake you’ll make again, will you, boyo? What’s your name?”

“J-John.”

“O _kay_ , John, I’ve got a _riddle_ for you--”

“Nygma,” Oswald says sharply. “Don’t play with your food.”

The smile drops off Nygma’s face as he looks back up at Oswald, leaving his expression strangely blank. “Don’t you care?” he demands, voice low.

It’s disconcerting how quickly Nygma shifts affects, but at least it helps remind Oswald how different he is now from what he used to be. “Care about what?” Oswald asks, purposefully flippant.

“He would’ve killed you without remorse.”

“He certainly would have made an _effort_ ,” Oswald corrects, crossing his arms over his chest. His leg is beginning to ache from the long walk in cold weather, but he ignores it determinedly.

Nygma’s eyes narrow as he looks Oswald up and down, and Oswald has the distinct feeling that Nygma can tell he’s in pain. He suppresses a scowl at the thought. “You don’t think he should die for that?” Nygma demands.

And that’s all it takes: Oswald’s mind spirals back down the familiar path, his eyes widening with the strength of his fury. He sucks a deep breath in, suppressing his immediate desire to lash out. “If I killed everyone who once wanted me dead, the world would be a very different place, wouldn’t it?” He’s impressed by how calm he manages to make the sentence sound.

Nygma purses his lips and looks down at the boy, brows drawn together with some uncertain emotion. “You don’t think I should kill him?” he asks, sounding pitifully put out, and with that, the wind is torn from Oswald’s sails, rage quieting in his bloodstream.

“Please, please don’t,” the youth begs.

Oswald sighs gustily. “By all means, kill him. But you don’t have to drag it out; it’s not like he’s a particularly illustrious prey.”

“One riddle,” Nygma says, as if debating himself. “If he answers correctly, he gets to go.”

Oswald gives a one-shouldered shrug, affecting disinterest. “As you wish.”

“Oh, _goody_ ,” Nygma says. He lowers himself to his haunches, still looming over the young man, and his grin is wide like a skull’s. “Okay, _Johnny boy_ , here we go…”

The faint smile on Oswald’s face isn’t _fondness_ , he insists to himself as he watches “the Riddler” at work. It _isn’t_.

~

He’s only a block from home when he finally realizes that Nygma is still keeping pace with him, and he’s not sure what to do about it. A wave of nervousness passes over him. If he were a more optimistic man, he’d call it butterflies; as it is, he calls it nausea.

“Don’t you have anywhere to go?” Oswald asks, focusing his gaze on the handle of his umbrella cane. “Are you homeless?” he adds, condescendingly.

“Not homeless,” Nygma says, apparently unoffended, “but I think there may be an undercover cop staking out my HQ.”

Oswald sighs sharply, frustratedly. “And how long has that been going on?”

“Oh, just since last night,” Nygma says airily. “I think our friends at the GCPD are finally beginning to see the pattern.”

Closing his eyes briefly in despair, Oswald guesses: “The pattern of your crimes which leads straight to your front door?”

“Bingo!” Nygma agrees, voice cheerful. “I’m putting odds on Jimbo; geography isn’t Foxy’s strong suit.”

“That’s why you needed that particular warehouse,” Oswald says, and promptly kicks himself. Why the hell had he brought it up? Things were just beginning to feel like normal; awkward, strained, but thankfully all at the level of subtext.

“Yes,” Nygma says, after a pause. His voice is quieter now. “I did have a good reason.”

“I’m sure,” Oswald says flatly.

Nygma inhales sharply. “Penguin--”

“Ah, we’re here,” Oswald interrupts harshly. “I suppose you’re going to go find somewhere to lay low, now?”

“I thought--” Nygma presses on as Oswald unlocks the front door to the club (he’s certainly not leading Nygma to the back entrance, the elevator going directly up to his living quarters).

“Ivy!” Oswald talks over him, hoping beyond hope that she stopped by.

“--we might--”

“Sorry, birdbrain, Ivy’s busy tonight,” comes the familiar voice of Cat.

Oswald exhales in relief. Nygma also lets out a gust of air, but it’s anyone guess what he means by it.

From the back room, Selina appears, a small calico cat cradled in her arms. “Oh, look, it’s the riddleguy.”

_That_ sigh is recognizable; it’s irritation. “The Riddler, Catwoman, the _Riddler_.”

“If you say so,” Cat says, eying Nygma up and down dubiously. She turns her gaze to Oswald, subtle concern in the angle of her brow. “You good tonight, Ozzie? I’ve got to see a guy about a thing.”

It takes Oswald a moment, then: “Ah, it’s the weekend, isn’t it.” He can tell she’s worried about him, not sure why Nygma is here; discounting last week, Oswald isn’t sure the last time the two of them have been in the same room together, let alone without a chaperone. But as nervous as he is, Oswald isn’t about to ask Cat to stay; he doesn’t need her to _protect_ him. “Stay safe, have fun,” he advises.

Cat scoffs. “Several years too late, but thanks anyway, Pengy. Can you keep an eye on Fern?”

“I don’t know why Ivy ever told you-- yes, fine, I’ll take her.”

Cat breezes by, dropping the cat into Oswald’s arms as she passes. “Make sure she can’t get into the wine. She likes it.”

“Why are you leaving an alcoholic cat in my club?” Oswald demands petulantly, staring down at the calico in his arms. She’s small, probably only a few pounds, and missing a hind leg. She looks up at Oswald with bright green eyes before batting at his nose with her paw, and he feels a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re so transparent, Ozzie,” Cat says, laughingly. “Don’t spoil her too much!”

Oswald looks up, ready to retort, but his eyes accidentally catch Nygma’s. Oswald had almost forgotten he was there, but the look on his face sends a chill running down Oswald’s back. It’s narrow-eyed, observing, calculating; and Oswald worries, suddenly, that Nygma’s been making a _study_ of him for some nefarious reason.

“What?” he snaps, as the door swings shut behind Cat.

Nygma blinks, and turns away to look down at the bar counter. “I didn’t know you liked cats.”

“I neither like nor dislike cats,” Oswald says, as Fern swipes again at his nose. “You’re a demon,” he murmurs to her, fondly. “I don’t suppose your curiosity is satisfied?” he continues, raising his voice to address Nygma.

“It wasn’t curiosity that brought me here,” Nygma disagrees. “Or; not only curiosity. May I get a drink?”

“Help yourself,” Oswald says begrudgingly. He strides to the bar counter himself, and deposits Fern on a stool; it’s difficult to balance her on one arm for too long. She looks up at him serenely, curling her tail around her legs. He hears the telltale sounds of Nygma grabbing a glass from behind the counter, and the sound of water coming from the spigot. _Figures_ , Oswald thinks, _the one man who asks for a drink at a bar and gets tap water_.

He looks back up at Nygma, finally, to find the other man staring at him, a contemplative frown on his face. “I can be flipped and broken, but never move. I can be closed, and opened, and sometimes removed. I am sealed by hands. What am I?”

Oswald frowns back, irritated, but forces his mind to work over the problem. Nygma waits, patiently, his eyes dark and thoughtful. Oswald reaches out absentmindedly to stroke Fern’s head as he thinks.

“A deal,” he says finally, and Nygma nods appreciatively. Oswald watches the other man, waiting for him to elaborate; but he says nothing, just looks back at Oswald with eyes that are heavy and dark. What kind of deal is he… as Oswald watches, his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, and it suddenly _clicks_. “Wait, you mean…” Oswald trails off, staring dumbfoundedly at Nygma. His heart is thundering in his chest, horror and anticipation coiling in his muscles.

“You’re still attracted to me,” Nygma says, defensively. “And…” As Oswald watches, his throat works. “...and I am attracted to you,” he says, voice nearly a growl. He closes his eyes briefly and visibly composes himself; Oswald wonders what that admission cost him. “You are unattached,” Nygma says, but pauses as if waiting for a contradiction.

There is none. Oswald nods, faintly, feeling sick to his stomach.

This is a terrible idea. Words cannot express how awful of an idea this is.

But… last week had been unlike anything he’d ever felt before; and that had been fraught and uncomfortable and (pathetically) heartbreaking. And Oswald already knows he’ll never have Nygma any other way. So what’s the harm--

Nygma is watching him, eyes tracking his expression carefully, glass of water held in a loose grip.

Oswald knows exactly what the harm is.

But, damn himself, he can’t say no.

“If we're going to do this,” Oswald says finally, firmly, “there should be some rules.”

“Rules?” Nygma asks with distaste.

“Rules, yes,” Oswald says. “It's rules or no deal.”

“Like what?” Nygma asks, examining his glass of water with interest.

“As I've said before, we call each other Penguin and Nygma.” There’s no objection, and he continues: “ _No one_ can know about this; you can't tell _anyone_.”

“I'd be more worried about _you_ telling,” Nygma interjects, “to Poison Ivy or Catwoman.”

Oswald scowls at the accuracy of the accusation. “Well, I won't, for the sake of reciprocity, but neither of them would ever turn on me. I was more concerned about either of our enemies finding out.”

“You can’t predict betrayal,” Nygma says.

Oswald looks up to meet his eyes, stomach burning with bitterness and exhausted anger. He takes in a deep breath. “Either we discuss it or we don’t, but it’s comments like that which make me think this a horrible idea.”

“Rule three?” Nygma asks after a pause.

“What, no veiled comments? I think that will be harder than you imagine.”

“We try to avoid veiled comments, and don’t call each other on them--”

“Blithely ignore any and all subtext. Sounds--” _\--like a great foundation for a relationship_ , Oswald was going to say, but he cuts himself off just in time. This _isn’t_ a relationship; it’s a _deal_. “--acceptable,” he finishes after a pause, weakly.

Demonstrating his ability to follow the rules, Nygma doesn’t call him on it. “Anything else?” he asks.

“I don’t--” Oswald frowns, trying to think. “I’m not comfortable with you in my living quarters,” he says finally. “It’s up to you whether or not you would allow me in your…” he grimaces, “HQ, though the fact that you call it that makes me worried that it may not have an actual bed.”

“It does,” Nygma says. “Why don’t you want me in your room? I won’t do anything.”

Oswald scowls. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he says, then continues, begrudgingly, “but _no one_ goes into my living quarters. I enjoy having a safe haven, where I don’t have to worry about the not-inconsiderable number of people who would enjoy deposing me.”

Nygma inclines his head, slowly, as if reluctant to admit the reasonability of the point.

A sudden thought strikes Oswald. “And no staying overnight,” he adds hastily. He can hardly imagine how awful it would be, to sleep in the other man’s embrace, and wake to those cold, calculating eyes. It would be like waking death; like an icy vise around his heart.

“Is that all?” Nygma mutters, voice sarcastic.

“I think so,” Oswald says, overlooking the sarcasm. “But if you have anything to add, go ahead. And if I think of anything else I’ll let you know.”

“I don’t have anything to add.”

“And all those rules are … okay with you?” Oswald prompts, heart thrumming in his chest like a hummingbird’s.

“Yes,” Nygma says impatiently. “Yes to all. That's fine. Will you please fuck me now?”

Oswald inhales sharply, through his nose, the arousal flooding him like a crashing ocean wave. “Yes.”

Nygma sets his water down on the counter deliberately, and takes several steps toward Oswald. Oswald suppresses a shudder as the other man approaches, his eyes captured by Nygma’s dark and intent gaze. When he’s close enough to touch, Oswald reaches out with one hand and rests it against the taller man’s breastbone, feeling the warmth of him through the layers of his shirt and jacket.

He stares up at Nygma, and Nygma looks down at him, eyes unfathomably dark and unreadable. Oswald slides his hand gently up the other man’s chest, palm coming to rest at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He can feel Nygma’s speeding pulse thrumming against his hand.

“There are,” Oswald begins, voice strangely soft, “guest suites in the back. We can--”

“Yes,” Nygma interrupts, voice raspy and deep. The sound of it sends a shiver down Oswald’s back. He’s not entirely sure if it’s from excitement or fear.

~

Oswald shuts the door behind them and turns to see Nygma’s assessing gaze traveling around the room. Oswald leaves him to his observations; the room impeccably outfitted with the finest amenities available. His guests are discerning, and this, the most luxurious room he has.

He unbuttons his suit jacket and then his waistcoat, sliding both off and draping them over the back of the sitting chair. He turns to face Nygma, finding the other man’s eyes heavy on him. Oswald feels a thrill of intrigue, lowering his hands to his fly and unfastening it slowly. The other man rushes to undress as Oswald watches him, gaze heated, the room silent save for the rustling of clothes.

Nygma has only managed to undo his fly and pull his pants and underwear down to mid-thigh when Oswald feels a rush of intent, and he grabs the taller man by the lapels and shoves him onto the bed. He bounces as he hits the plush mattress, eyes wide and startled, mouth open in a little gasp. Oswald throws himself on top of him, straddling his waist, and presses his open mouth to the other man’s. Nygma relinquishes control immediately, opening his mouth to Oswald’s tongue, back arching against the downy comforter and hips pushing into the air, seeking friction that isn’t there. Oswald’s hands bury themselves in his hair, tilting his head to the side to give Oswald better access to his jawline.

Nygma’s skin tastes like clean sweat; salty and earthy and somehow familiar. Oswald bares his teeth, nipping at the skin of his jaw, and the man writhes under him, huffing out a gasp by Oswald’s ear. Oswald hides his smile in the graceful curve of Nygma’s neck before returning his mouth to the other man’s, pressing his tongue against his lips for entrance. Nygma allows him in, tongue welcoming and caressing Oswald’s, soft and wet and reminding Oswald of last week, when he’d had that tongue on him. With another sudden rush of desire, he tightens his fingers in the other man’s hair, all but devouring his mouth with his own.

“Do you still,” Oswald gasps between kisses, “get tested every month?”

“Yes,” Nygma hisses into Oswald’s mouth.

Oswald drags his tongue across the other man’s lips before pulling away, sealing the kiss. “Good,” Oswald says, staring down at the other man. His brown eyes are heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide with arousal, mouth open to quiet pants of breath.

A smile plays at Oswald’s lips as he slides off of Nygma’s lap, avoiding the other man’s grasping hands. “Where--” he begins, petulantly, but Oswald grips him by the lapel once again and begins to tug.

“Wh--”

“Hands and knees,” Oswald says, and is gratified when the other man’s mouth drops open and his eyes widen. Oswald lets go of his jacket, and Nygma scrambles onto his hands and knees eagerly, throwing a look at Oswald over his shoulder.

Oswald strokes his hand along the other man’s side, enjoying the heat and closeness of his body, the way he feels so viscerally _human_ and _alive_. When his hand reaches his waist, he grips it, using Nygma’s body as leverage to pull himself up and position himself behind the other man.

He strokes one hand along the cheek of his ass, and then pauses, grimacing. He doesn’t have any lube handy. Should he--

Before Oswald can even think about getting up, Nygma shifts his weight onto one hand and reaches inside his jacket pocket, pulling out a little bottle of lube and holding it out toward Oswald. Oswald takes it, lips twitching, and swats his asscheek lightly, experimentally, making the taller man jump a little in surprise.

“I can’t believe you--” Oswald shakes his head, a little ruefully, and pours a liberal amount of lube onto one hand.

When he presses one finger inside the other man, feels the heat and tightness squeezing him, Oswald has to hold back a groan at the sensation. Nygma feels _made_ for him, perfect, and Oswald _does_ groan as Nygma pushes back against Oswald’s finger, eager for more stimulation.

He rushes through stretching him, too eager to be inside of him; and the other man seems to agree, letting out impatient whines whenever he slows down to savor the tightness of the other man around his fingers.

“Please, Oswald,” Ed says finally, brokenly, and Oswald pulls his fingers out and rises up on his knees, hastily slicking his own erection even as he lines himself up against his entrance.

The first press of his cock against Ed nearly undoes him; Oswald clings to Ed’s suit jacket, fingers twisting in the fabric, desperate to stave off his orgasm. He bites his lip, tasting familiar copper, and Ed half sighs, half gasps underneath him.

“I need - I need -” Ed moans.

“What do you need?” Oswald prompts, voice breathy with desire.

“Fuck me,” Ed gasps, “Please, please fuck me.”

Oswald’s blood turns hot in his veins, and bares his teeth in animalistic desire. “I will,” he promises, voice dark.

Ed whines and pushes back against him, urgent. Oswald leans over the other man’s back and wraps his arms around his waist, holding him steady as he begins to thrust inside him.

He keeps his pace steady, too soft to do much more than torment Ed, and he grins fiercely as Ed struggles a little in his grip, trying to gain the leverage to thrust back against him. Oswald tightens his hold on Ed and leans over him, bringing his mouth to Ed’s ear. He can just see the harsh curve of Ed’s cheekbone, his lashes fluttering frantically as he revels in the pleasure Oswald is giving him. Or-- bitterly Oswald reminds himself that the look of bliss on Ed’s face doesn't _belong_ to him, not really, because he is just the easiest, most trustworthy option.

“Do you like this, Ed? Is this what you wanted?” Oswald hisses into his ear, equal parts arousal and anger. Ed moans and nods, helplessly, and Oswald bites down on his neck in retaliation. Ed arches his back in response, finally managing to press his ass back onto Oswald’s cock, disrupting their rhythm and sending a hot jolt of pleasure through Oswald. He thrusts back inside him, harder, and Ed gulps in air, body shivering under Oswald’s hands.

His fingers dig into the fabric of Ed’s shirt as Ed - _damn it, fuck, how long has he been calling him Ed?_ \- writhes underneath him, breaths panting and desperate.

“Come inside me Oswald, please,” Ed begs, and Oswald bites down on Ed’s shoulder through his jacket as he comes, pleasure flooding his veins and turning his mind senseless, until all he can hear is the sound of Ed saying his name, voice rough with desire.

The world fades out; all he knows is feel of Ed underneath him. All that _matters_.

He comes back to his senses abruptly, Ed still writhing below him impatiently. Oswald pulls out too quickly, and Ed hisses in discomfort, pressing himself back against Oswald, reluctant to part.

Without pausing, Oswald shoves Ed’s hip, knocking him down and onto his side, and Ed stares up at him, helpless with desire. Oswald pushes him again, rolling him onto his back, and climbs on to straddle the taller man’s thighs, pinioning him beneath Oswald’s weight.

Ed’s erection is flushed pink and _so_ hard, and he tries to roll his hips underneath Oswald, straining for friction. Oswald reaches down and firmly strokes Ed’s cock, just once, feeling a rush of smug pleasure as Ed can’t help but thrust himself into Oswald’s hand.

Oswald lets go of Ed’s arousal, ignoring Ed’s petulant whine. He slides down Ed’s legs and leans down until his lips are hovering just over Ed’s erection. The heat of his cock warms Oswald’s lips, and before he can even _think_ about teasing the other man, he’s swallowed him down, the weight of his cock heavy on Oswald’s tongue.

Ed’s hand comes to the back of Oswald’s neck, not guiding but clinging, short fingernails digging into his skin. Oswald revels in the sharp pinpricks of pain, tightening the ring of his lips around Ed and stroking his tongue along the base of Ed’s cock.

“Os-Oswald,” Ed gasps, fingers tightening on the back of Oswald’s neck. “I’m going to--”

Oswald sucks harder, hollowing out his cheeks, and then with a wordless shout Ed comes, back arching off the bed and hips pressing up against Oswald. Oswald swallows, choking a little as Ed’s cock hits his throat, unaware in his pleasure. Oswald lets him, relaxing his throat and clenching his hands into fists to avoid the gag reflex.

Ed sags back onto the bed, hand slipping off of Oswald’s neck. Oswald slowly pulls off of him, feeling a wave of regret as Ed’s softening cock leaves his lips. He swallows again, feeling phantom pressure of Ed’s arousal against his throat, and stares down at the other man with a strange out-of-body feeling.

Ed’s skin is flushed pink, everywhere it’s exposed; sweat has gathered on neck and his breathing is still labored, eyes contentedly shut in the afterglow. He looks guiltless in his sated desire; guiltless and so, so beautiful.

Oswald’s heart aches, suddenly, fiercely, and he throws himself off the bed.

He feels empty, like his heart is thudding in his open chest cavity, horribly exposed and vulnerable. Of course he couldn’t hold himself back. Of _course_ he would lose his perspective the moment they fell into bed together. He can’t sleep with “Nygma”; Nygma is nothing more than a concept, a flamboyant villain bent on disorder and destruction. Ed is … still wild, still breathtaking, but he is _physical_ and _human_ and _familiar_.

Oswald pulls his pants and underwear up, swiftly, and tucks his shirt in, too hasty to bother with neatness. He blinks fiercely as he throws his waistcoat and suit jacket over his arm, hoping to drive the tears away before they spill over.

“Oswald?” Ed says from behind him, voice unreadable.

Oswald freezes in his flurry of movement, panic seizing his limbs. He forces himself to calm, straightening his back and taking in a steady breath. “I need to take care of Fern before opening,” Oswald says, forcing his voice steady with effort. “I trust you can see yourself out.”

He leaves the room without waiting for a response.

~

When he’s lying in bed at six am, staring up at his featureless white ceiling, Oswald finds the tears he banished earlier returning to prick at his eyes. He shuts them, swallowing harshly. His eyes burn at the corners, and frustratedly, he rolls over to his side and tries to settle.

He should never have agreed to it.

But it’s too late now. There’s no way that Ed will believe he didn’t _enjoy_ it; the sex had been incredible. So if Oswald were to change his mind, Ed would know, would _realize_ , of course, that Oswald still has feelings for him, still so vulnerable and easily exploitable.

He cannot afford to show weakness.

A soft _mew_ comes from the pillow beside him, and he blinks open his eyes to see two green ones staring back at him. “What?” he asks her, voice half a sob.

Fern steps closer and nuzzles his nose with her own, her whiskers tickling softly. He screws up his nose to stifle a sneeze, and stares back up at her. “I don’t have anything for you,” he whispers. She sniffs him and then curls up against him, her face next to his and her hind leg digging into his Adam’s apple.

“Comfortable?” he asks, a little ironically.

She _mrrows_ back at him, and with a rueful smile, he reaches up to stroke her fur with one tired, unwieldy hand.

He falls asleep that way, curled around his cat and faint smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a whole headcanon about the blood testing. Basically, nearly every time Oswald kills someone he gets their blood in his mouth, WHICH IS SO UNHYGIENIC. So I have a headcanon that he gets his blood tested regularly and got Ed to start doing it when they were mayor & chief of staff. It's also an excuse so they can bareback. Lol.


	3. We're Being Polite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew!!! That finale _got me_. I loved it!!! It isn’t going to change much for my fic, but I’ll probably have them awkwardly reference Ed’s former popsicle status. In general, you can assume this becomes canon divergent post-3x22. I don't know if I'll go into detail with how Ed got released from the ice or anything, it'll depend on how the story progresses. But it probably won't be the same as the show.
> 
> Please enjoy!! :D  
> ~R

His leg gives out the next day, as he’s climbing out of bed. He stares down at it, in horror, fear lancing through him. What had he - what had - _of course_.

It’s been so long since he’s had to perform any strenuous activity like last night ( _when he’d had Ed writhing underneath him_ ) that he doesn’t blame himself for the moment of panic. He used to worry, back when he was first injured, that one day he would use the limb too much and it would just collapse completely, leaving him helpless and vulnerable to attack. He’s had more than one nightmare about the prospect.

Of course it wouldn’t be so dire now. His life is not in such constant danger as it had been in those days, when he was a mere pawn attempting to manipulate queens and knights and bishops.

He does have a brace. He despises it, ordinarily; it chafes and then he has to use talcum powder. And if he uses talcum powder, it usually ends up on his clothing, making him either look like he’s been trying baking for a change or he’s been particularly careless with his illegal drugs lately.

But he’ll have to, today; there’s no way he can stand on it all day.

Fern winds around his legs as he gets ready, and he’s incredibly irritated at her until he realizes that _of course_ , she’s hungry, and he digs through his cabinets with some consternation. The shelves are nearly empty, but he does manage to find a can of tuna somewhere in the back, and he sets it on the floor for her to eat.

He stares down at her, hands on his hips, twisted knee throbbing against the brace. “I guess I’ll need cat food,” he tells her. He wracks his brain, trying to remember when his next grocery order is, and he’s startled to realize he has no idea. He ends up eating most of his meals downstairs, anyway; his suite is little more than a safe haven, after all.

“Hurry up,” he orders her. “I want to be downstairs in ten.”

She ignores him.

~

Oswald sets Fern down on the couch in his office as he settles inside, preparing to go over some of his paperwork of a more dubious legality. He pours himself a glass of wine and begins to draft a memo for his security detail, faint frown on his face as he sips away idly.

A sudden clatter startles him, and he jumps in his chair as Fern lands on the desk unevenly, skidding and knocking his inbox off the desk. The papers scatter, spinning idly in the air and landing in a completely disorganized mess. Fern blinks up at him.

“Will you-!” he snaps, slamming his hands down on the desk. She looks up at him with wide eyes, hackles raising slightly, and Oswald abruptly leans back in his chair, holding himself still as his temper eases. He shuts his eyes and takes in a deep breath, and when he opens his eyes again, Fern is staring at him with luminous green eyes, whiskers twitching. “I apologize,” he says, and then grimaces to himself. He’s apologizing to a cat.

Oswald pushes himself out of his chair and drops into a kneel, gathering the scattered papers from his inbox as quickly as he can manage. The metal edge of the brace digs into his knee where he’s putting his weight on it; it wasn’t intended for this use.

When he finally rises back to his feet, he glances at his desk and then gives an undignified shriek - Fern is leaning over his wine glass, dipping her paw in. “Get- get off!” he snaps, setting the papers down on the desk and reaching out to grab her. Unfortunately, she tries to leap away from him and instead knocks over the whole glass of red wine.

“Oh for-!” Oswald snatches up his papers, trying to save them from the spreading stain of red wine. He does manage to get most of them, and he hastily stacks them up on the seat of his chair. When he’s finished, he puts his hands on his hips and stares at the cracked wine glass and the puddle of wine on his desk surface. The wood finish is surely ruined.

He looks up to see that Fern has returned to the couch. “You are a _demon_ in disguise,” Oswald tells her. She stares back at him, unperturbed.

He's hardly had time to wipe up the wine spill when Ivy sweeps into the room, wearing a pair of earrings that look suspiciously new.

“Good morning! Oh, is that Fern?”

Oswald doesn’t look up as he sets his papers back down on the desk. “Yes,” he says flatly, finally sitting back down in his chair. “Did Cat tell you about her?”

“Yes,” Ivy says, scooping Fern up into her arms. The little cat doesn't protest, but sniffs Ivy’s face. Oswald eyes her suspiciously before returning to organizing his stack of paperwork.

“Do you have your brace on?” Ivy asks, typically tactless. Oswald tries to stymie the flood of irritation at her casual question, but only partially succeeds.

“Yes,” he says curtly, snatching a paper out of the pile at random to pretend to be occupied with.

“Did you get hurt?”

Oswald clenches his hand into a fist. The lines of text blur before him as his eyes glaze over, and he forcefully blinks to bring them back into focus. “I strained my leg yesterday walking,” he says flatly, scribbling a rather aggressive “ _absolutely not_ ” onto the request for more firepower. “I despair for the criminal of today,” he says disparagingly. “Can’t even muster up the ambition to acquire their _own_ flamethrowers.”

Ivy ignores the comment. “I only ask because Cat said that the Rid-- I mean Nygma -- stopped by again last night.”

Oswald’s pen falters, mind stuttering to a brief halt. _Gossiping busybodies_ , Oswald thinks, half-fondly, half-enraged. In other circumstances, the observations would be entirely welcome. He sets his pen down and turns to Ivy, finally meeting her worried gaze.

“What happened?” she asks, eyes warm and understanding. Fern mews plaintively.

The urge to tell Ivy, to let the ugly truth spill from his lips, is nearly overwhelming. He shuts his eyes, firmly, and when he opens them, he forces a smile onto his lips.

“Nothing, Ivy,” Oswald says. “Nothing at all.”

He can tell she doesn’t believe him, but she just nods, cradling Fern to her chest. She buries her nose in her fur, briefly, then lifts her head up and says fiercely: “You know you can tell me anything, Ozzie?”

“Yes, Ivy,” Oswald says, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I know.”

~

It’s Saturday, the club’s busiest night, and Oswald doesn’t find a moment to himself until after one am -- the last guests are, on the whole, too drunk to remember anything at this point. Ivy is, of course, the exception; she’s been eying Oswald suspiciously all night, and he’s beginning to worry that she might end up taking some drastic steps to “help” him. Not that he wouldn’t appreciate it on the surface; it’s gratifying having someone so worried about his wellbeing. But he has a rather grim image in his head of her deciding to confront Nygma and, in the ensuing altercation, revealing Oswald’s feelings about him. She has yet to learn all the subtleties of communication, and matched against Ed, he's not assured of her ability to “win” that particular encounter without help from one of her plants.

He’ll have to talk to her; explain it away somehow. But what can he say that will satisfy her curiosity, assuage her fears, and keep the truth a secret? He shuts the door to his office behind him with a sigh, closing his eyes and relaxing fractionally at the quiet of his soundproofed room.

A faint jingling noise reaches his ears, and he opens his eyes to a sight so unexpected it’s comical: Ed, with an emerald-green cat collar in one hand and a squirming Fern in the other. Fern mews at Oswald, plaintively.

A helpless bark of laughter escapes Oswald, and he holds his hand up to his mouth to stifle it. Ed grins at him, looking very pleased with himself. “She won’t hold still,” he tells Oswald, not seeming at all perturbed by the fact.

“Green, Ed? Really?” Oswald asks, taking a step toward them and leaning his cane against the sitting chair.

“Her name’s Fern,” Ed explains. “I thought it was fitting.”

“Mmhm,” Oswald says. He holds out his hand for it, and Ed obliges, giving him the collar.

Oswald turns it over in his hands, briefly, examining it. It’s high quality; he’s not sure of the material, but it’s definitely not cotton blend. There’s a tiny silver bell on it: the source of the jingling he heard. “It’s lovely,” Oswald says finally, looking up to meet Ed’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“I thought it would look nice,” Ed says, deflecting.

Oswald takes Fern’s head, gently, and slips the collar over her head swiftly. He releases her, and she shakes her head, startling at the jingling noise it makes.

“It suits her,” Oswald agrees.

“How did you do that?” Ed asks, a little suspiciously. “She wouldn’t hold still for me.”

“We had a cat, when I was very young,” Oswald explains.

“You did?” Ed asks curiously, setting Fern down on the seat of the chair. She promptly twists her head and attempts to bite the collar.

“Yes,” Oswald says shortly, but Ed is looking at him with a familiar attentive expression, and he continues without thinking: “He was called Mister. More my mother’s cat than mine. One of the neighbor kids killed him when I was around seven or so. No more pets after that,” he says, mock-cheerfully.

“I’m sorry,” Edward says.

Oswald shrugs. “I put rat poison in their flour and they were all sick for weeks. What about you?”

Ed blinks at him, blankly.

“Any pets?” Oswald prompts, and Ed shakes his head.

Oswald suddenly feels absurd: they’re having a normal conversation, the kind two strangers might have. As if they’re just ordinary people, as if they don’t have a history of love and hate dramatic enough for any Shakespearean tragedy. Eager for something to do, he turns to the chair and picks Fern up, sitting down and placing her in his lap.

“No pets,” Ed says, looking down at the floor of Oswald’s office. “I used to catch crickets and keep them in a shoebox. They always died, though.”

“Hmm,” Oswald says. “I caught butterflies, for a while. My mother liked them. Not really a fan of insects, myself.” He holds Fern’s head, keeping her from biting at the collar. She meows at him.

Ed nods seriously. “I caught crickets because I liked the chirping. I kept the box in my room at night.”

Oswald blinks. That seems… odd. He’d never spared too much thought to Ed’s childhood before; he’d never mentioned it, and Oswald had never inquired. But now he pictures it: Ed, still tall, but far skinnier, probably with too-big glasses and unruly curly hair, lying in bed listening to the sound of crickets to lull him to sleep. There’s something… _lonely_ about the image, and he thinks that’s what prompts him to ask: “No siblings?”

The look on Ed’s face shutters. “No,” he says shortly, and Oswald suppresses a grimace as Ed turns away to face Oswald’s desk.

An awkward misstep. He’s not sure how to rectify the mistake.

But it’s not _his_ fault, is it? He didn’t have any reason to think that particular question might be off limits. No. It’s Ed’s fault for being so sensitive. He should wait Ed out.

Half a heartbeat later, Oswald says: “Ed?”

Ed turns back to him, expression blank. But Oswald sees something - he can’t quite decipher it, but there is _something_ in the line of his lips.

Before Oswald can think of something to say, the door to his office swings open and if it weren’t for Fern Oswald would’ve leapt out of his chair. “Pengy, I’m leaving for the n-- _oh_.” She looks between Oswald and Ed, startled. “I didn’t realize--”

“Ivy,” Oswald says nervously, heart in his throat. “We were--”

“I was telling Oswald about my newest scheme,” Ed interrupts, voice smooth. “He’s been offering advice.”

“Well… that’s, um, good I guess?” she says uncertainly, looking to Oswald for reassurance. Before Oswald can respond, her face lights up. “Oh! That’s a lovely collar.” She sweeps forward, once more oblivious to any tension in the room, and Oswald withholds a sigh of relief. “I love that color!” she enthuses, holding out her arms for the cat. Oswald holds her up for Ivy to take.

“Ed-” _damn it_ ; she looks up at him, face dumbfounded, “...brought it.”

“Ed?” she says uncertainly, turning around to look at Edward.

“Yes,” Oswald says. “We’re being polite.”

“We are?”

“ _Yes_ , Ivy,” Oswald hisses. “Weren’t you leaving?”

“Oh! Yes,” she says, once again distracted. “I’ve got to go. But remind me that I have something to tell you when you’re um, you’re free.”

“What?”

“No, nothing bad, it’s just this idea Cat and I had… anyway, just remind me to tell you!” She leans down and kisses Oswald’s forehead, setting Fern back into his lap. “Okay, um, goodnight Ozzie!”

When Ivy leaves, all Oswald’s good humor seems to leave with her, and he’s left feeling cold and uneasy. What the hell was he doing? More concerningly, what was Ed doing? Trying to ingratiate himself? Now Ivy knows they’re on a first-name basis, she’ll be less likely to worry about Ed showing up, right?

Isn’t that what he wanted?

“Oswald?”

Oswald blinks himself out of his reverie, stroking a hand over Fern’s head and lifting his eyes to meet Ed’s. “Yes?” he asks, brow raised.

“Are you expecting anyone else?”

Oswald’s eyes drop automatically to Ed’s lips, then his jaw, then his throat. “No,” he says. “The staff handles closing on their own.”

“Then..?” Ed asks, taking a step toward him.

“Lock the door, first,” Oswald orders, rising from his chair with Fern clutched in his arms. “And the damn cat,” he mutters to himself, looking around the room. He finally sets her down onto the surface of his desk, and she sniffs the wood where he can still detect the faint red stain.

He turns, and Ed is there, looking down at Oswald with eyes darkened by arousal.

“Ed,” Oswald says, voice deep and soft. “How do you..?”

“Can I ride you?” Ed interrupts, quickly, eagerly.

Oswald swallows, anticipation burning in his gut. “Yes,” he says, and the word comes out huskier than he expected.

“You can,” Ed says, skittishly, “you can sit in your chair, and I’ll --”

Impatience seizes Oswald and he reaches out to yank Ed down by his tie. He seals their lips together, his free hand coming to rest on Ed’s shoulder, and he backs his way to his chair, tugging Ed after him.

He releases Ed when he topples back into the chair, and hurries to unfasten his pants and yank them and his underwear down to his ankles. He gets caught on the brace briefly, and frustratedly he realizes that the metal frame will be painful for Ed to sit on. He casts about himself briefly before remembering the throw blanket on the back of the chair. He grabs it with one hand and lays it on top of his brace, hoping it will be enough to cushion Ed.

His hand brushes against his cock briefly and he’s almost chagrined at how hard it is already. It’s _absurd_ how eager his body is for Ed. He glances back up, bitterly thinking that he doesn’t understand why-

An involuntary gasp escapes him, heart racing in his chest.

Ed has stripped down from the waist, pants and shoes discarded by his side, and the sight is painfully beautiful. His legs, almost impossibly long, are pale and marred by the odd scar and bruise, his cock, flushed pink and hanging heavy between his legs. Oswald devours him with his eyes, mouth open and hungry.

Ed takes a step forward, and Oswald has to grip the arms of the chair to prevent himself from leaping up and pulling Ed to him. It feels rude, but he can’t take his eyes away from the newly exposed skin, his desperation to touch Ed immeasurable.

Finally Ed steps within reach, between Oswald’s spread legs, and Oswald can’t help but lean forward and plant a kiss on the sharp angle of Ed’s hip. He hears a breathy sigh above him, and feels the caress of air as Ed’s hands flutter by his head, unsure where to land. Oswald’s hands grip Ed’s thighs, his lips leaving a trail of kisses from Ed’s hip down to the nest of hair above his cock.

Ed whines then, a hand finally coming to rest on Oswald’s head, his fingers digging into Oswald’s hair. Oswald smiles at the feeling, baring his teeth and nipping Ed gently before pulling away and finally looking up into Ed’s eyes.

His heart pangs in his chest and Oswald has to shut his eyes to hold back tears - Ed’s expression is adoring and painfully familiar - it’s the same look he used to wear, before everything. Oswald swallows, fiercely, and tries to ignore Ed’s hand as he cards his fingers through Oswald’s hair. Without opening his eyes, Oswald tugs Ed forward, feeling the other man collapse eagerly into his lap.

“Blanket all right?” Oswald forces out through gritted teeth.

“Hmm?” Ed asks.

Oswald opens his eyes, determinedly focusing on Ed’s leg where it rests on Oswald’s brace. “Is the cushion okay?” he asks, sliding his hand over Ed’s thigh, feeling the tense muscles there.

“Oh,” Ed says, “yes.”

“Good,” Oswald says. “I don’t suppose you have-?”

Before he finishes speaking, Ed is slipping the bottle of lube into his hand, expression both pleased and impatient. A smile quirks Oswald’s lips, familiar fondness overriding the pain he still carries buried deep in his chest. Ed’s eagerness has always been one of his most endearing qualities.

Oswald wraps an arm around Ed’s waist and tugs him forward until Ed’s head is resting on Oswald’s shoulder, and Oswald feels his cock brush Ed’s. Ed gasps, loudly, into Oswald’s ear, and his hands come to grip Oswald’s shoulders. “Os-” he whispers, “Oswald.”

“Would you prefer..?” Oswald asks, bringing his other hand between them.

“N-no!” Ed insists, breath hot against Oswald’s neck. “I want you inside me.”

“Okay,” Oswald breathes, possessive desire taking a hold of him. He wraps both arms around Ed’s waist and pours a generous amount of lube onto his right hand before dropping the lube bottle, allowing it to fall to the floor carelessly.

With Ed leaned forward against him, his ass is tilted up, and it’s easy for Oswald to slip his slicked fingers between the cheeks of Ed’s ass, brushing tantalizingly against his hole. Ed gasps, deliciously, into his ear. Oswald suppresses a smile and traces the rim with one finger, feeling Ed clench and unclench on nothing.

Heat and wetness attack his neck: Ed presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against his throat, sucking what will surely become lovebites into the skin. Oswald doesn’t even try to protest; he can admit, if only to himself, that the idea of Ed’s attentions writ on his skin is overwhelmingly attractive.

Eventually he gives in to Ed’s unspoken demands; he slips first one, then two, then three fingers inside of him. It’s easier than yesterday. He’s still stretched from the last time Oswald was inside him, and the mere thought alone is enough to send Oswald into a heated frenzy, demandingly yanking Ed forward in his lap to line his cock up against his entrance. Ed assists, reaching behind himself to help guide Oswald as he presses his cock against Ed’s hole; and slowly, Ed sinks down, inch after inch of Oswald swallowed up.

Ed leans back, sitting onto him, and sets his hands on the armrests. Oswald leaves his arms wrapped loosely around Ed’s waist, looking up at the pulse pounding in Ed’s throat. He watches as a smile breaks across Ed’s face, and Ed raises himself up onto his thighs before sinking down again, surrounding Oswald in heat once again.

As he settles into a rhythm, he leans down, and Oswald tilts his head forward to rest against Ed’s shoulder, hiding the expression on his face in Ed’s suit jacket. Ed’s muscles are tense, all over; he moves slowly on Oswald, controlled and precise.

The careful movement is so very _Ed_.

Oswald chuckles, breathlessly, into Ed’s shoulder, arms tightening around Ed’s waist. Ed’s hands come to frame Oswald’s face, and he leans down over Oswald to press their lips together. Oswald chases his lips as he rises and falls in Oswald’s lap. He feels hot all over, head to toe; he _burns_ where Ed is touching him, on his lips and cock and cheeks and arms and fervently in his heart. Ed’s mouth is beginning to taste familiar, Oswald realizes, heart blazing. He’s beginning to _learn_ Ed’s body now.

Finally, Ed pulls out of the kiss, and Oswald is about to protest but then he sees the look of pained bliss on Ed’s face and he falls silent, stroking his palm over Ed’s back. Ed slides his hands down Oswald’s face and onto his shoulders, using him as leverage to fuck himself onto Oswald even more fervently.

As Oswald watches, Ed’s brow draws and his mouth opens in an O, tongue pink and mouth wet. Oswald slides his arms down Ed’s sides and takes his cock in hand with one, reveling in the soft heavy _heat_ of him. Ed whines, brokenly, and pushes himself down on Oswald’s cock and comes, his hands gripping Oswald's shoulders and breath a desperate, gasping pant. Oswald strokes his hand over Ed's erection, feeling it pulse in his hand, fingers stroking over the tip and collecting some of the come there. He lifts it to his lips to taste, but Ed, eyes still hazy from orgasm, leans in and drags his tongue across Oswald's fingers, stealing the come.

“Ed!” Oswald protests, startled into laughter, and Ed grins at him before leaning in and kissing him, sharing the taste of his release between them.

Ed pulls away eventually, pressing a line of kisses along Oswald's jaw until he's reached his ear. “Oswald,” Ed whispers, seriously, “I want you to come in me.”

Oswald feels his cock pulse where it’s still buried inside Ed. He leans his head back against the chair, giving a little more distance between them. Consideringly, he stares up at Ed, reading the smug pleasure on his face. Oswald strokes his tongue across the roof of his mouth. He can still taste Ed there. “You’ve stopped,” he says finally.

Ed’s eyes crinkle at the corners, an implied smile, and Oswald opens his mouth to complain just as Ed’s hole tightens around him.

Instead, a moan escapes him, breathy and uneven. “Ed,” he says. “Ed, you-”

He clenches again, and again, and Oswald finds his teeth bared, each breath painful and protracted. He desperately tries to thrust up against Ed, but Ed is sitting flush against him, and there’s no way to thrust. “Get that damn smile off your face,” Oswald orders, tangling his fingers in the fabric of Ed’s shirt.

He just smirks, and leans down until his chin is resting on Oswald’s shoulder. “ _No_ ,” he murmurs, into Oswald’s ear. “I need you to come inside me, just like this, Oswald.” A feather-light kiss brushes Oswald’s jaw, and he hisses in response. “I want you to fill me, make me yours.”

The lightning strike of arousal hits him at that thought, the thought of his come marking Ed, naming him as _Oswald’s_. Of course Ed doesn’t mean it that way, but he sounds so fervent and sincere… Ed clenches his hole around Oswald’s cock again, and that’s all it takes for Oswald to come, clinging to Ed’s hips and thrusting up against him as much as he can, pleasure racing up and down his spine. Ed licks Oswald’s throat, a hot, wet caress, before dropping his forehead down onto Oswald’s shoulder. The crisp scent of his hair gel invades Oswald’s nose as Oswald sinks back against the chair, allowing Ed to settle in comfortably in his lap.

Oswald shuts his eyes, giving in to the relaxing of his muscles and calming of his mind. Even Ed's weight pinning him to the chair feels more comforting than caging now. Mindlessly, Oswald strokes his hand along Ed's flank, and he feels Ed shiver pleasantly under his palm.

For endless moments, he allows contentment to seep into his bones. It's only when the clock strikes a new hour that he blinks his eyes open, unsure how long he's been dozing.

“Ed,” Oswald mumbles into Ed’s hair. Then: “ _Ed_ ,” a little more urgently, his fingers tangled in Ed’s suit jacket.

“No,” Ed says petulantly, right into his ear, and Oswald shivers reflexively at the sensation.

“You can’t-” Oswald flails briefly, “trap me in my own chair!”

“I need to tell you about my scheme,” he says, his chest rumbling against Oswald’s. Oswald feels surrounded by warmth, by heat, by the familiar feeling of Ed’s body. His heart flips, over-eager, and he tries to push Ed off, but Ed clings to him harder, and he has no leverage at this angle.

“Why?” Oswald says finally, exasperatedly.

“So you have something to tell Poison Ivy if she asks,” Ed says, and Oswald grimaces. Ed actually has a point.

“Do we--” he swallows, and forces himself to sound harsh: “Do we have to do it while I’m still _inside_ you?”

Ed raises his head enough to meet Oswald’s eyes. Oswald feels his cheeks coloring as Ed’s smoldering eyes read his expression. Ed leans in to capture Oswald’s lips, and he gives in, letting Ed press his tongue into Oswald’s mouth. A thrill runs through him, dulled by his recent orgasm, but still alluring.

He pulls away, finally, breath caressing Oswald’s lips, and he murmurs, “I like how you feel. I want you inside me as long as possible.”

Another thrill, more heated and pointed, travels up his spine. “Ed-”

Ed captures his mouth again, cutting off his words with teeth and tongue. Again Oswald lets him, his hands sliding up Ed’s sides and slipping underneath his shirt, caressing the warm, smooth skin underneath.

What _is_ it about Ed? Oswald has never known desire like this. Ed seems intent on devouring him, licking every possible protest from the heat of Oswald's mouth. Oswald digs his fingernails into Ed’s flanks, and possessively he pictures the skin blanching white under his grip. Ed makes a satisfied noise against his mouth before shifting a little in his lap.

The movement drags a moan from Oswald, from deep in his gut, as sparking pleasure works its way through his cock and up his spine. He yanks his lips from Edward's and gasps out: “Ed!” voice frantic with unnerved desire.

“Are you getting hard again?” Ed says breathlessly, glee lighting in his eyes. “Oswald.”

“Fuck,” Oswald snarls, because he _is_.

“You _are_!”

“I--”

Ed kisses him again. “I'm going to ride you again until you fill me up,” Ed tells him, darkly, secretly, and this time Oswald kisses _him_ , hungry and aching, pulling Ed's chest flush against his, and together they fall back into mindless pleasure.


	4. New Rule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edward finally thinks of a rule. Oswald is painfully oblivious. I drop some hella good foreshadowing. ;)
> 
> I feel like this chapter is all over the place, but there’s a lot I wanted to get to. Hope you enjoy!  
> ~R
> 
> PS: I’ve already made good headway on Chapters 5 & 6 so it shouldn’t be too long!

Two rules.

Oswald rubs his forehead, distractedly. His head is aching faintly, even though the club is relatively sedate tonight. He blames it on lack of sleep.

He’s grateful Ed hasn’t mentioned the rules again; every time he remembers his determination whilst proposing them, followed shortly by the immediate breaking of _his own rule_ regarding their names, he’s overcome with a wave of self-loathing and self-pity. But at least the names had been more symbolic than anything else. In and of themselves, they don’t have the power to change anything. Not like the other rules.

But surely, spending half the night unconscious in a chair in Oswald’s office doesn’t constitute “staying overnight”. Especially since his “nights” are actually usually in the morning.

So really, it’s only _one and a half_ rules, not _two_.

Not that that changes how _idiotic_ he feels. After his stolid rationality that first night, his boundaries are falling away faster than he could have imagined. And he should have _known_.

That damn rule about not telling anyone feels like it’s backfiring against him in a spectacular fashion. Who would Ed tell, anyway? It’s not like he has any particular friends or allies -- what, was Oswald afraid he was going to go tell _Jim Gordon_ or something?

No -- no, he can’t allow himself to forget. There is a very important reason for that rule. If Ed's enemies find out they are together, even if only in a physical sense, Oswald will once again be considered potential leverage against him, and vice versa. Never again will he be asked to sacrifice himself for Edward Nygma. _That_ is something he won’t survive.

(Because the shameful, irrevocable truth is: he would. He would give himself up in a heartbeat. After all this time.)

“Mr. Cobblepot?”

Oswald jerks his head up and out of his hand, plastering a smile on his face. “Please, call me Oswald,” he says automatically.

The man facing him isn’t particularly tall, but still at least half a head taller than Oswald. His face is pleasant, friendly, unassuming, outfit neat but understated. Most likely a first-timer to the club, perhaps an ordinary person curious about the life of Gotham’s most celebrated criminals. And yet… confident enough to approach him.

Interesting.

“Oswald,” he says with a smile. “I’m Derek. Nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand to shake, and Oswald shifts his cane from his right hand to his left in order to take it.

_That’s_ what he’s missing. Where’s his damn wine? “A pleasure. How is your evening going?”

“Good, so far,” he says. “Better since I’ve finally met the esteemed owner himself.”

Oswald’s eyebrows shoot up. _Esteemed_? “I think you mean infamous,” he says, ending the handshake with a polite smile.

The man laughs. “Perhaps both,” he agrees. “I would have to be willfully ignorant not to have heard some of the more colorful tales from your youth.”

That odd idea again. People seem to believe he’s _outgrown_ his old ways, for some unfathomable reason. He still doesn’t quite understand the illusion. Just because he’s at the Iceberg every night doesn’t mean he’s suddenly on the straight and narrow. He looks up at the man, into blue eyes, and frowns slightly. “Well, I hope I don’t disappoint.”

“On the contrary, they don’t do you justice.” His smile appears modest and genuine. Oswald eyes him suspiciously, then finally it _clicks_.

This man is flirting with him.

Oswald is no stranger to coy suggestions and bedroom eyes. Especially these days, now that he is the unquestioned emperor of organized crime in Gotham. And now that people believe the wild violence of his youth to be tamed. Still, he’s never been much interested in the temptations. He’s never held much interest for anyone at all.

Except, of course, Ed.

He smiles at the man, deciding friendly obtuseness is the best route. He’s been polite, and Oswald is not offended by the attention. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself. But do enjoy your evening.”

“I’ll do my best,” the man says, and that does come off a little too strong. Oswald smiles tightly and steps away, losing himself into the crowd.

He’s just managed to take a hasty sip of champagne to bolster his energy when he hears a sudden drop in volume in one corner of the club. That ominous quiet usually heralds a burst of violence, so Oswald quickly darts through the crowd to take charge of the situation. And promptly halts, nervousness and elation warring in his gut.

It’s Ed.

Oswald wishes his heart wouldn’t leap at the sight of the other man. He forces a neutral expression onto his face and surveys the sight. Ed’s not doing anything wrong; he’s lounging on one of the couches, fiddling with what appears to be some sort of puzzle box. Oswald’s sure he’s not _solving_ it; it looks far too easy to have Ed stumped.

He supposes the gathering is right to be astonished at the sight of him. The last time Ed had publicly set foot in the Iceberg Lounge, he’d been the frozen centerpiece of the club. And that hadn’t exactly been willingly.

Oswald bolsters himself. Ed is surely here for a reason; and he, at the very least, wouldn’t do anything outrageous and risk compromising their tentative truce. And he knows how important the Iceberg is to Oswald.

“Hello, Edward,” Oswald says, loudly and firmly.

The answering titters from the crowd are irritating, but Oswald forces himself not to react, taking a few steps closer to Ed. Ed glances up at him, idly, over the brow of his glasses. Oswald almost quirks a fond smile until he gets a hold of himself; it may _appear_ intimidating when Ed looks over the browline of his glasses, but Oswald knows he can’t see a damn thing without them.

“Hello, Oswald,” Edward says back, and he slips the puzzle box into his pocket. “Lovely place you have here.”

“Yes, well,” Oswald says. The gaze of dozens prickles his skin, and he forces himself to take another step closer. “I hope you’ve been doing well.”

“Quite well, thank you,” Edward tells him, and his eyes are amused, wrinkled at the corners.

“Good,” Oswald says. 

They stare at each other for a moment. “Well,” Oswald says finally, brightly. “Have a lovely evening.”

“I will, thank you,” Edward says.

Oswald takes his leave quickly, returning to the familiar ground of the bar. Unease still holds him in its grasp. Where’s his champagne gotten to? He’s in desperate need of alcohol; but the bartender isn’t in sight.

Without warning, he turns and there is the man from before, smiling brightly at Oswald and holding out a glass of red wine. Oswald eyes him up and down, suspicion curling in his gut, but accepts the glass without protest. What was his name again? Something beginning in D. Daniel? David?

“Listen,” he says, and Oswald hides a grimace behind the glass, faking a sedate sip. His tongue darts out to taste the wine; he can’t detect anything suspicious, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He wishes Ivy were here, suddenly, fiercely. “Are you busy tonight?”

Oswald smiles, a little mockingly. “Yes, I am _every_ night.”

“Right.” The man laughs, and it _is_ somewhat endearing: sweet, simple. If Oswald were a less cynical man, he might even be charmed. “Of course, I’m sorry. I guess I should ask if you’re busy tomorrow evening? Say, around five?”

“I’m afraid he is.”

Oswald blinks and turns, catching sight of Ed by his elbow. As he watches, somewhat startled, Ed snatches the wine glass out of his hands and hands it off to a passing waiter. “I need his help with something,” Ed continues, seemingly oblivious to Oswald’s dumbfounded expression.

“If this is about your… _business endeavor_ ,” Oswald begins, vaguely nonplussed at the interruption, “I didn’t think it was time sensitive.”

“It is,” Ed says, stubbornly.

Oswald’s eyes dart over his expression; it’s mulish, frustrated, his lips in a severe downturned line. _Oh_ , Oswald realizes, and he probably should have expected as much. Ed has never, in his experience, been a _sharer_.

He sighs, a little frustrated. He hadn’t even been intending to accept, but to decline the man _now_ would make it seem as if he was doing so to please Edward; and he certainly _wasn’t_. “I apologize,” he says finally, turning back to the man. “It appears I have a prior engagement. Perhaps another time?”

“Sure,” the man says easily. “Sure, that’s fine. I like it here; I don’t mind visiting.” And then with a sweet smile, he leaves Oswald alone with Edward.

Ed looks down at Oswald, expression grim. “What were you thinking? Accepting an open drink from someone you don’t even know?”

What _is_ it with Ed constantly underestimating him? “And if you weren’t as blind as our flighted friend,” Oswald says icily, “you’d have seen that I didn’t actually _drink_ any of it. I’m not a _moron_ , Ed, thank you.”

“I saw you- _oh_ ,” Ed says. “You faked it?”

“Yes,” Oswald says. He glances around, checking the crowd nearby them. “Now what are you _really_ doing here, Ed?”

“I never got a chance to tell you about my plan,” Ed says. “I was worried Poison Ivy might have asked you about it.”

Oswald scowls. “She hasn’t even been back since l-last night.” He ignores the instinctive flush to his cheeks, and soldiers on: “And if that was what you wanted, why didn’t you wait in my office like before?”

Ed frowns. “You already told Poison Ivy we were on better terms. It’s only a matter of time before it’s common knowledge. We may as well control the gossip.”

As always, Ed is thinking strategically. And he does have a point; being seen on equitable terms with “the Riddler” will only emphasize Oswald’s position as a cornerstone of the underworld, and the Iceberg Lounge is generally considered a safe haven for most of Gotham’s less traditional villains, which will be beneficial for Ed.

“So go ahead,” Oswald says. “Tell me about your scheme.” He surveys the nearby crowd for a waiter, but comes up disappointingly empty.

“Not here,” Ed says. “Can we go to your office?”

Oswald only prevents the blush through sheer determination. “If you think it’s necessary,” he says finally, voice quiet, “then yes.”

~

“Go on then,” Oswald says, pointedly skirting the armchair from last night and seating himself behind his desk.

“I’m setting up a maze,” Ed says in a rush, coming up beside the desk. “It’s going to take some time, because it has to be broad enough to pose a challenge for Jim _or_ Foxy. Whoever ends up inside.”

“Only one?”

“There’s a weighted release. The first person inside will get trapped.”

“More likely to be Jim, then,” Oswald says. He finds himself vaguely curious despite himself. “Where is it?”

Ed grins. “Inside my old HQ. I’ve already set up a new one,” he adds in aside. “Each juncture has a puzzle game or riddle that they need to complete in order to advance. Some are unsolvable. I have cameras set up,” he adds hastily, “closed-circuit, transmitted on a short-wave frequency so I can watch in real time. I want to see the _look_ on their face.”

Oswald blinks, consideringly. “And… what is it made out of? You know Jim; he may just try _shooting_ his way through.”

Ed points at Oswald. “Fair point,” he says, voice pleased. “What _would_ stop Jimbo from even attempting--”

“Threat on innocent life,” Oswald concludes, nodding thoughtfully. “A bluff, or a genuine one?”

“I haven't decided,” Edward confesses. “It may end up coming down to time.”

“And what’s the endgame?” Oswald asks. “Is there some sort of time-release toxin? A long drop into the abyss?”

“The impetus for timeliness will be for the innocent schoolchildren,” Ed says, “who will meet their unfortunate demise should our brave hero delay.”

“Of course,” Oswald says. “But what’s the _point_? What are you trying to accomplish?”

“Er,” Ed says, giving him a quizzical look.

Oswald shuts his eyes knowingly, defeatedly. “Ah. Mayhem?”

“Yes. It’s for fun, really,” Ed agrees. “Oswald…”

Oswald looks up at Ed, curiously. His tone has switched; it’s softer and flatter now. Oswald tries to read Ed’s expression, but he can’t tell what emotion has sobered him. “Yes?”

“You said we can propose new rules,” Ed says, fingers coming to fiddle with the signet ring on his thumb. Oswald feels a stirring of nervousness in his gut.

“Yes,” he says, attempting to sound nonchalant. “Did you think of something?”

“Yes,” Ed hisses. “If you... engage in... physical activity with someone else, you have to disclose it.”

A vibrant blush takes over Oswald’s cheeks and he directs his gaze downward to avoid revealing any emotion in his eyes. Frankly, he thinks this is a situation in which ignorance is bliss; he’d prefer _not_ knowing if Ed is… with ... anyone else. “Is that… entirely necessary?” he hedges, fingers fiddling with the fountain pen on his desk.

“Yes,” Ed bites out. “For health reasons, if nothing else.”

Oswald eyes dart up to him, and he stares, dumbfounded. “Would you really fuck just _anyone_ without a condom?” he demands, voice shakier than he’d like.

Ed frowns. “What? No.”

“Because that’s dangerous,” Oswald pursues, concern pushing him to speak despite his reluctance. “I’m being conscientious and I’m trusting you to do the same.”

“That’s what I _mean_ ,” Ed says, voice aggravated. “We need to disclose that.”

Oswald sucks in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It’s necessary. He’ll just have to… prepare himself for the eventuality. Inevitability. Ed is still very much in his prime. “Fine. New rule. Accepted.”

Ed visibly relaxes, his shoulders lowering. Oswald blinks as Ed circles his desk and leans down, but doesn’t protest when Ed drops his hand to Oswald’s shoulder and leans in to press a kiss to his lips. He closes his eyes and sinks into it, allowing contentment to seep into him like a salve, wiping away tension and dismay from moments before.

For now, at least, he has this.

After a few moments, Ed pulls back, his fingers tightening on Oswald’s shoulder. “Can I… taste you?” he asks, breath tickling Oswald's lips.

“Taste..?” Oswald asks, confusedly, but Ed’s free hand comes to rest on his abdomen and drifts lower, slowly, deliberately. “Ah,” he says nervously, “the door…”

“I locked it when we came in,” Ed murmurs against Oswald's lips. “I was hoping…”

“Ah,” Oswald says again. Ed presses his lips to Oswald’s again, slipping his tongue between Oswald's unresisting lips and stealing a taste of him. “Ed?” Oswald whispers against Ed's lips.

“Mmhm.”

“Why do you always want me to top?”

Ed pulls back at that, looking into Oswald’s eyes from inches away. He watches Oswald, closely. Oswald fights off the blush which comes instinctively to his cheeks under the scrutiny. Ed sighs, and the air brushes Oswald's mouth and chin. “I didn't want you to feel like I was putting you at a disadvantage.”

Oswald shuts his eyes, partly relieved and partly amused. “Ed,” he says firmly, “that’s absurd.”

“Is it?”

Oswald opens his eyes to meet Ed’s, who is still so close. Ed watches him, solemnly, as Oswald says: “Yes, it’s _ridiculous_.”

“So you want..?”

“I enjoy both ways.” Is it his imagination, or are Ed’s cheeks darkening? “Ed.”

“So…” Ed brushes his knuckles against Oswald's stomach. “Are you saying..?”

“Next time… not right now, but when we have more time, do you want to top?” Oswald ask.

The look that comes over Ed's face is indescribable: his eyes _burn_ , possessive hunger in their depths. Oswald shudders.

“Yes,” Ed says. “I do.”

“Good,” Oswald says softly, and then Ed’s hands are pulling at his fly, and Ed’s lips are devouring him, and Ed’s gasping against his mouth. Oswald falls back in his chair, his arms sliding up to clutch Ed’s shoulders. Ed leans into him, chasing the taste of his mouth.

A groan escapes Oswald as Ed finally releases his erection from the confines of his clothing, the stroke of his hands lighting up Oswald’s nerve endings, setting him ablaze.

Ed breaks the kiss, pulling back enough to meet Oswald's eyes once again. His dark eyes are enrapturing, devouring, and Oswald can't tear his gaze away as Ed presses a kiss to his jaw, his throat, and drops down to his knees before Oswald.

Ed looks up through his lashes as he laps the tip of Oswald’s cock. A keen escapes Oswald’s lips, his hands fluttering around Ed’s head, aching to _hold_ him. Ed catches one of Oswald's hands, a smile quirking at the corner of his lip, and he guides Oswald's hand to his hair.

Oswald threads his fingers through the gelled strands, unsure how much Ed is willing to give him. Ed pulls away from his arousal, lips curving into a full grin. “You can pull,” he tells Oswald smugly. “I like it.”

A hiss escapes Oswald’s lips and he pulls lightly, experimentally. Ed’s eyes close to slits, a strangely blissful expression turning his face peaceful. His mouth drops open and he _licks_ Oswald’s arousal, sloppily. Oswald groans at the wanton display and pulls harder, his eyes falling shut in pleasure. This time Ed fights him, lower his lips to the base of Oswald’s cock and presses gentle kisses against the tender skin there.

“You are such…” Oswald gasps out, opening his eyes and staring down, “a _tease_.”

A mock-offended scowl crosses Ed’s lips. “And _you_ are so impatient, Oswald.”

“And?” Oswald challenges. He rolls his hips forward, so his cock bumps Ed’s lips. Ed smiles up at him, serenely. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you _enjoy_ my impatience, Ed.”

“Perhaps you would be correct,” Ed agrees, and wraps his lips around Oswald’s tip. Oswald shudders, the sudden warmth and wetness startling. Ed’s lips curve into a smile as he pulls back off.

“Ed…” Oswald says, with a warning tug on Ed’s hair.

Ed lowers his head and drags his cheek along Oswald’s cock, and Oswald’s hips rock forward with the friction, a startled gasp coming to his lips. “ _Ed_ , you--”

_Finally_ he takes Oswald’s cock into his mouth and _sucks_ , bobbing his head with increasing fervor. Oswald’s fingers tangle in his hair, pulling harder and harder, and he can see some tears welling up in the corner of his eyes and the saliva escaping his mouth. It’s too perfect a picture, Ed’s lips around him, gazing up with those dark eyes, which, with tears, look too reverent for words.

Just as Oswald is beginning to tense, the first licks of orgasm teasing him, Ed pulls off him again and Oswald is about to _scream_ at him but Ed says rapidly: “Come on my face, Oswald, _please_ ,” and he’s still looking up at Oswald, stroking his saliva-slick cock with his hands and there’s no point trying to resist. Oswald comes, fingers tensing in Ed’s hair, and Ed’s face is painted white, his eyes shut and mouth open, eager.

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald sighs, as Ed cautiously blinks his eyes open. Oswald drags his thumb across Ed’s cheek, bringing his thumb to his mouth to taste. Ed watches him, enraptured, as Oswald takes the thumb between his lips and _sucks_.

When he’s finished he leans down, between his spread legs, and wraps his arms around Ed’s torso, dragging him up and closer. Ed comes willingly, pupils blown wide and still enchanted by Oswald’s display. Oswald leans still closer, dragging the flat of his tongue across Ed’s face, lapping up the come that remains, until he returns to Ed’s lips, kissing him breathlessly, fervently.

With a little trouble, he maneuvers Ed up and onto the edge of the desk. Ed stares at him, dumbfounded, as Oswald attacks his fly, yanking his pants down to mid-thigh. Ed’s cock is not as confused as he is, and it bobs to attention in Oswald’s grip.

One of these days he’s going to tease Ed just as badly as Ed does him; but his mouth is watering at the thought of having his lips around Ed once again and Oswald doesn’t resist it, lowering himself onto Ed’s cock and swallowing him down. Ed _whimpers_ when he does so, the sound high-pitched and breathy, and Oswald smiles around the erection in his mouth as he sucks. He loses himself to the rhythm, to gentle rolls of Ed’s hips underneath him and to the rising and falling of his lips around him.

There’s a sound coming from the door and Oswald yanks his head off of Ed’s cock in reflex, staring at the entranceway. The sound comes _again_ and Oswald realizes it’s knocking.

He scowls; he’s hardly ever bothered in his office, but then again, he’s hardly ever in here during open hours. Still, unless the entire _building_ is burning down, he won’t be able to bring himself to care. He strokes his hand back down Ed’s cock, holding it by the base. At least the room is soundproofed; there’s no way they could guess what he’s doing in here.

The knocking on the door ceases, and Oswald drops his head down to lick the underside of Ed’s cock. “You’d think they’d guess that I’m busy,” Oswald says, a little jokingly, but when Ed’s cock pulses in his hands he darts a look up at the other man.

Ed’s hands are clenching the edges of the desk so tightly his knuckles are bone-white. His breath comes in short, heavy pants, and he’s staring at Oswald’s lips like he’s been mesmerized.

“Oh Ed,” Oswald breathes, and Ed’s eyes dart to his, frantic. “You always were a showman.”

“Please--” Ed begins fervently, and Oswald lowers his lips to kiss the tip of Ed’s erection. He strokes his hand up and down Ed’s thigh soothingly.

“I wonder who was waiting out there? And what would they say to _this_ scene,” Oswald says, mock-thoughtfully, and takes Ed in his mouth once more. This time he keeps lowering himself, until Ed’s pressing against his throat, and then more, taking all of Ed inside of him at once.

Ed makes a little choked noise and Oswald digs his fingers into Ed's thigh.

Oswald lifts his head to breathe, but Ed buries his fingers in Oswald’s hair and holds him down. Oswald chokes a little, digging his fingernails into the skin of Ed’s thigh, but the desperation in Ed’s grasp is well worth the discomfort. He looks up at Ed, through his lashes, feeling his face turning red from the held breath.

Ed is a picture of agonized pleasure, and when Oswald meets his eyes he gasps out Oswald’s name, jerking his hips into Oswald as he comes. Oswald can feel Ed’s come in his throat, far enough that he can’t taste it, and he swallows convulsively around Ed’s cock. Ed still stares down at him, motionless, and he’s not breaking the eye contact, eyes hungry and overwhelmed.

And Oswald stares up at him, unwavering, lungs burning with lack of air and heart burning with triumph.

~

Oswald steps out of his office and almost runs into someone. He looks up, startled, to see a familiar face.

“Ivy!” Oswald says, heart thundering in his chest. “You’re here.” Worriedly, he brushes a hand down his lapel and then over his hair, hoping his recent debauchery isn’t noticeable.

“And so are you!” she chirps. “And you met Derek!”

“Who?” Oswald asks, bewildered, just as Ed steps out of the office behind him.

Ivy blinks. “Oh, and you’re here. Again,” she says.

“I am,” Ed says, voice defensive. Oswald feels a stirring of worry at that -- he’d _better_ not so much as _look_ at Ivy wrong.

“ _Who_?” Oswald demands again, resting his hands on his hips. Damn it, did he leave his cane in the office?

“You know, Derek! He said he talked to you,” Ivy says, a smile on her face. “Didn’t you..?”

“Oh! That was his name,” Oswald says thoughtfully. He frowns. “Why didn’t you tell me to expect him? I thought he was trying to drug me!”

Ivy looks genuinely startled. “Derek wouldn’t do that!”

“I believe you,” Oswald says, “but that’s my _point_ , Ivy, I didn’t know you _knew_ him.”

“He’s really nice,” Ivy says. “He’s in my gardening club. He’s not involved in crime, but he’s not morally opposed to it; I’ve told him about _loads_ of my robberies and he’s never so much as called in an anonymous tip.”

With a sudden dawning horror, Oswald realizes that Ivy is trying to _set him up_ , like some sort of unsociable bachelor sibling. Oh god, he _is_ that, isn’t he? “Ivy, please--”

“He’s twenty-nine--”

“-- _Ivy_ \--”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Oswald,” Ed says suddenly, stiffly, voice trembling with barely-suppressed anger. Oswald withholds an automatic shudder, turning to catch Ed’s eye.

“You don’t need to run off…” he says, half-heartedly.

“I’m quite busy myself,” Ed says, curtly. “You enjoy your evening. Say hi to Derek for me.” He turns and begins to walk away.

“Ed--”

Ed whirls around to face him, and snarls sharply, viciously: “Just _don’t forget what I said_.” Then he departs, footsteps quick and light.

Oswald looks back to Ivy, who’s staring at him. “Are you gonna tell me he’s _not_ jealous?” she says, matter-of-factly. “Because he sounds _exactly_ like someone who’s really jealous.”

“Wait--” Oswald says. “You did that on _purpose_? You were _trying_ to make him jealous?”

“It was Cat’s idea!” Ivy says, defensively. “Derek’s actually really nice, I would be totally happy if you’d date him. But Cat was all ‘Why not get two birds with one stone?’ and she’s _really_ convincing when she tries to be.”

Oswald sighs, dropping his head into his hand. Of _course_. The sad thing is, they’re _right_ to a certain extent; but they don’t know that Ed’s possessiveness is borne of their _physical_ relationship and not anything more substantial. Of _course_ he’s territorial over their … arrangement. He is an incomparably jealous man.

But it’s nothing more than that.

And he can’t _tell_ them that.

Ivy is watching him expectantly, a little nervously. He sighs, wearily. “Okay, Ivy. Go ahead, tell me about Derek.”

Her expression clears of worry, but disappointment is still written in the set of her jaw. Oswald quirks a bitter smile at her. “If you don’t want to be disappointed, Ivy, you shouldn’t entertain absurdities.”

“Is it really that absurd?” she asks softly, and the tone of her voice cuts Oswald to the quick. He shuts his eyes against the sudden prickling of tears in his eyes.

“Tell me about Derek,” he says again. This time she obeys.


	5. And Whose Fault Is It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pro tip: try to imagine Scene 1 from Ed’s perspective, because tragically Oswald is too freaking oblivious.
> 
> Also… I’m addressing something I hope they forgot about in canon. It may seem like a detour from the fic, but it’s there for a reason. More about the canon events below.
> 
> Finally, I’m pretty sure the complete work will have 12 chapters + an epilogue; I have the skeleton plot mapped out. Enjoy. <3  
> ~R

Oswald is pointedly not looking at the clock. He hasn’t been looking at the clock for the past hour or so, which is setting him on edge. Fern bumps his hand with her head, and he resumes petting her, half-heartedly. He’s found that keeping her on his lap seems to settle her; she’s less likely to try and leap onto his paperwork that way.

Unfortunately, he still can’t have wine anywhere near her. There are several more new stains in his office and, more troublingly, in his suite. He can have housekeeping take care of his office, but he’s not about to scrub the floors of his suite. Irritating.

He feels an impulse to glance at the clock again, and stops himself.

He’s not sure if Ed had told Derek he’d be here tonight simply to dissuade the other man, or if he actually intended on showing up. Oswald would have said yes, he’d certainly show up, he’s _been_ showing up every day since they began their arrangement; but the anger in Ed’s voice when he’d left last night was significant.

Will he decide Oswald is too much trouble? Or will Derek’s presence spur him on? Oswald is having trouble predicting Ed’s reaction, and he’s not sure if his _own_ feelings are clouding his judgment, or if he’s simply out of his depth with regards to Ed. In the past, Ed has either been fully aligned with him, fully aligned against him, or so distant it hardly makes a difference. They’ve never had such a … tenebrous relationship in all the time they’ve known each other.

More troublingly, Oswald knows very well that he should be _irritated_ by Ed’s possessive attitude, not _pleased_. Ed has no _right_ to be possessive over him, and Oswald hasn’t asked him to be. It’s not really the sign of a well-adjusted relationship.

Yet how could it be? The foundation of a relationship is mutual trust and respect, Oswald believes, which is something they’d once shared but lost, bitterly, due to their own actions. They still know each other better than anyone else. But while they can trust each other to be truthful, they can’t trust each other with their emotions, their secrets, their desires. And Ed can have no way of knowing how welcome his jealousy is. It shows, at the very least, that Ed views their arrangement as something he would hate to lose.

Oswald snorts. Perhaps that just reveals how pathetic he is, that something so unsophisticated can be taken as a positive. As long as Ed is looking at _him_ , he will bask in the attention.

But.

He will _not_ read more into it, unlike Ivy. He will accept it at face value and try to enjoy it for what it is. As he’s telling himself this, firmly, the clock strikes the hour and the door to Oswald’s office opens. He blinks, straightening in his chair, and he hardly hears when Fern mews up at him, displeased.

Ed is standing in the doorway, expression intent and observant; his eyes flicker over the office, as if to ensure they are alone. Oswald waits, but Ed remains in the doorway, seemingly reluctant to enter.

“Oswald,” he says finally.

“Ed,” Oswald says, uncertainly.

Ed watches him, eyes expectant, and Oswald feels a blush rising to his cheeks as he stares back, bemused. “Ed?” he says again, when there’s no response forthcoming.

The other man straightens in the doorway, jerkily, and says, “Do you… did you…?”

Oswald rises to his feet and sets Fern onto his desk, nervously. “We--”

“--You..?” Ed interrupts and then trails off, staring at him. Oswald stares back, utterly confused. It seems like Ed’s waiting fixedly for Oswald to say something, but _what_ , Oswald has no idea.

“We can go...” Oswald gestures vaguely in the direction of the suites, “...to one of the rooms. I’d rather… a bed.”

Ed looks at him, seeming uncomprehending, and Oswald looks back, confused. What is he missing? Is something wrong? He opens his mouth to ask, but before he can, Ed is striding across the room and capturing Oswald’s face between his hands. They feel hot, even against Oswald’s flushed cheeks, and Oswald blinks, startled. Ed stares into Oswald’s eyes, intently, assessing, and Oswald stares back, bewildered but compliant. “Ed?” he asks finally, hesitantly.

Ed inhales sharply, and kisses him.

The door to his office is wide open and anyone might walk by and see but Oswald doesn’t _care_ ; his body comes alive under Ed’s touch, _burning_ with passion and longing. It’s astonishing that Ed can make him feel this way, over and over again, bringing him to the brink of frenzied desire with little more than the taste of his mouth. _There is_ no one _like Ed_ , Oswald thinks with a fatalistic kind of devotion, _and there will never be again. He’s the only one_.

He finally pulls away slightly, reluctantly, holding Ed still by the shoulders. “We can go to one of the suites,” he says hastily, before Ed can protest.

“ _Yes_ ,” Ed says ardently, and he pulls Oswald back into his arms.

~

They take their time.

Oswald tries to undress himself but Ed stops him, determinedly removing Oswald’s suit one piece at a time, laying them over the back of the room’s chair with careful precision. Oswald feels a flush coming over his cheeks and ears at the attentive movements, similar to the ones they used to share.

When Ed finally uncovers his stomach his hands flutter nervously, like caged birds, and Oswald realizes that this is the first time Ed has ever seen the scar from the gunshot wound he inflicted. Ed glances up at him, mouth open and eyes shining with some fierce emotion.

Oswald brings his hand to Ed’s lips, stoppering whatever he has to say. Ed’s lips twitch under Oswald’s hand, but he gives in without much fight, returning to stripping Oswald with those meticulous movements.

Then it’s Oswald’s turn; he reveals Ed piece by piece, sloping shoulders and soft skin; he bears marks from a life of crime, but it doesn’t detract from the aesthetics of his graceful body; rather, they _add_ to it, mapping the story of Ed’s exploits on his skin.

Finally, they are both stripped bare before each other for the first time; Oswald’s breath catches in his chest at the thought. And then Oswald is lying on his back on the mattress, Ed lying over him, his fingers gently tracing over Oswald’s collarbone. Oswald brings his hand to Ed’s cheek, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. Ed’s eyes are gleaming in the dark, intent and fixated.

Ed breaks the silence, voice decisive. “Give me some.”

“Some..?” Oswald asks, bemused.

Ed’s finger traces over the tender skin on Oswald’s neck, and he remembers, suddenly, the lovebites that he’s been hiding with makeup and the high collar of his clothing.

“Hickeys?” Oswald asks. He raises his hand to the nape of Ed’s neck.

“Yes,” Ed breathes. “I want some lovebites.”

Simply hearing the word escape Ed’s lips shouldn’t cause Oswald’s heart to leap in his chest, but it does, sending a restless thrill running through him. He swallows back his trepidation and tugs Ed down by the neck, bringing his throat to Oswald’s lips.

He bites down first, not harsh enough to break the skin (he’s familiar with the difference). Ed’s skin is so soft and so tender, and Oswald feels fierce conflicting desires: to break him and to protect him; to tear him apart and to hold him together.

Instead he licks Ed’s injured skin and _sucks_ , skin salty and familiar under his tongue, alluring. Ed shudders over him, his arms trembling, and Oswald suppresses his smile and moves on to another spot, higher on Ed’s neck, above where his collar hits. He wants to know if Ed will stop him.

Ed doesn’t.

His last lovebite is marked on the corner of Ed’s jaw, right at the juncture of neck and face. Oswald can feel Ed’s erection, hard and heavy, pressing into his stomach. His own cock is throbbing, brought to life by the feel and taste of Ed against him.

“I want to…” Ed murmurs, as Oswald finally pulls away, lips aching with the effort of the six marks on Ed’s neck. “...rim you,” Ed finishes finally, stroking his hand absentmindedly up and down Oswald’s side.

Oswald stares up at Ed, startled, and searches for sincerity in his expression. He finds it in the eagerness of Ed’s eyes and the upturned curve of his brow. “How could I deny you?” he asks, and immediately feels a flash of panic at the imprudent clue.

But Ed smiles down at him, blithe and pleased, and presses a chaste kiss to Oswald’s lips before sliding down the length of his body.

Having Ed’s face _there_ brings an involuntary blush to his cheeks, burning hot on his skin. He tangles his fingers in the sheet as Ed rest there, his breath a delicate and painfully delightful caress against Oswald’s entrance.

As the seconds drag on, Oswald hisses, “Ed, _really_?” and finally Ed laps at him, tongue soft and wet and sending uncontrollable thrills running up and down Oswald’s spine. It’s too good -- and then he feels the tip of Ed’s tongue enter him, and it’s _perfect_ , his back arching up off the mattress and a strangled gasp escaping his lips. He's certain Ed is grinning smugly, but he doesn't _care_ ; Ed deserves to feel smug about _this_.

He’s already so far gone, swept up in the wave of Ed’s attentions, his legs quivering. He hardly notices the first finger slipping inside him, overwhelmed as he is by the feeling of Ed’s hot tongue against him, tracing his hole and dipping inside, wetting him earnestly, ardently.

The second finger slips inside him just as easily, Ed’s tongue opening him to the sensation, contentment running through Oswald at the feeling of utter _rightness_ with him so open and ready. And then the two fingers become three, stretching him effortlessly, pressing inside him. Ed’s tongue returns, still heated and devouring, stroking the delicate skin. Oswald squirms under the touch, a breathy moan escaping his lips.

Suddenly his breath catches in his throat and he’s can’t _think_ , waves of pleasure rushing through him, breath-stealing and heart-stopping. Ed’s fingers, his clever, _clever_ fingers have found the spot that turns Oswald senseless with pleasure.

The sensation is persistent, unceasing, with Ed’s fingers pressing against him in that spot, his tongue still warm and relentless against his rim. Oswald feels his body tensing, all over, his restraint evaporating in the heat of Ed’s passion. His mouth opens to pants, his fingers digging into the mattress.

And suddenly he’s overcome, as if by a wave: Oswald comes, back taut and stretched like a bow, Ed’s name on his lips, heart thundering and lungs straining.

He is shaking all over, tremors rocking him, and he collapses back onto the mattress with a gasp. There are sparkles dancing in his vision and his ears are ringing and he couldn’t care _less_ \- his muscles and his veins and his bones are liquid with pleasure, lungs throbbing as he gasps for air. There’s a weight between his legs, brushing against his chest and stomach, and he knows it’s Ed; he feels a gentle press of lips to his cheek and the soft caress of Ed’s breath against his skin. He brings his hand up to Ed’s neck, feeling the racing pulse there.

Ed hums and kisses Oswald again, on his jaw, and again, and again, growing more fervent with each. Oswald can _feel_ Ed’s arousal pressing into his stomach. As he blinks, his eyes clear, and he finds himself staring into Ed’s intense eyes as the taller man drags his lips across Oswald’s jaw, kisses growing more and more eager.

He feels calm and warm and stretched and sated and Ed’s growing desperation thrills him, deeply, striking him in the gut. It’s exhilarating, knowing that _he_ is Ed’s desire and Ed’s passion. 

Ed kisses him on the lips, finally, deeply, and when he pulls away his eyes are glimmering in the low lighting, teary with the strength of his need. “Oswald, _please_ ,” he murmurs, brokenly, his lips dragging against Oswald’s jaw.

As if Oswald would even _consider_ denying him. But Ed has been _such_ a tease. He strokes his thumb across Ed’s cheekbone, allowing the nail to bite his skin. “Tell me how much you need it,” Oswald orders faintly, watching Ed’s cheek blanche where his thumb is pressing.

Ed leans down and rests his face against Oswald’s shoulder, his chin digging into Oswald’s breastbone. “Please, Oswald, I want to be inside you.” That sends an electric thrill chasing up and down Oswald’s back. “I _need_ you.”

Too much of a good thing; Oswald’s heart is about to beat out of his chest. He grips the nape of Ed’s neck, holding him steady, and turns and murmurs into his ear: “Then fuck me, Ed.”

Ed’s hips jerk against Oswald and then he pushes himself up onto his forearms, eyes darting over Oswald’s face. Whatever he reads there satisfies him, and the next moment he’s leaning back, positioning himself between Oswald’s thighs.

The first press of Ed’s cock inside him feels hot, feels _pure_ , and there’s no pain, despite how long it’s been since he had last done this. Oswald reaches up and tangles his fingers into Ed’s hair, tugging on it to pull Ed’s face down to his own.

He kisses Ed, as Ed pushes inside him, his tongue in Ed’s mouth. It feels _right_ to be connected like this; to have some sort of closed circuit between them.

Ed shudders, violently, when he’s fully sheathed, his balls resting against Oswald. He pulls out of the kiss and stares down at Oswald with wide, astonished eyes, lips parted to reveal a glimpse of his bright white teeth. Oswald meets his eyes, allowing his hands to slide down to Ed’s shoulders, a reassuring weight more than an alluring one.

“Oswald,” Ed whispers, faintly. Religiously. A tremor runs through Oswald, and he strokes his hands over Ed’s shoulders and down his back.

“You can move,” Oswald says.

Ed closes his eyes, expression pained. “Are you sure?”

A fond sigh escapes Oswald’s lips. “You prepared me very well, thank you.”

Ed’s eyes fly open, darting over Oswald’s face, and as Oswald watches, his cheeks turn pink. “Good,” he says, faintly.

“Ed,” Oswald ushers, flattening his hands against Ed’s back and pushing him gently. “You can _move_.”

“Ah,” Ed says, and he shifts a little, the minuscule movement sending waves of pleasure through Oswald.

“ _Ed_ ,” Oswald says, “if you don’t start moving _now_ I’ll gut you.”

That does the trick; Ed huffs a laugh and shuffles, his chin ending up by Oswald’s temple, and then he _thrusts_ , rocking Oswald against the mattress. A moan escapes Oswald, his fingers gripping Ed’s back more firmly. He thrusts again, a little harsher this time, and Oswald rolls his hips with the movement.

They settle into a rhythm, easily, familiarly; Oswald can predict Ed’s movements by the way his back tenses under Oswald’s hands and the way his waist rocks in the grip of Oswald’s thighs. An exhilarated laugh escapes Oswald as Ed thrusts into him again and again, pushing him against the mattress. His lips are inches away from Ed’s neck and the sight of his throbbing jugular and the lovebites already decorating his skin makes his mouth water. He pulls himself up with his arms and digs his teeth into Ed’s throat, careful not to break the skin. Ed shudders against him, full body, his muscles tense and straining.

“Os- _Oswald_ ,” he gasps out, above Oswald’s head, and Oswald drags his fingernails down Ed’s back, scratching. Ed jerks his hips into Oswald, rocking them both, and then with a stuttered gasp he tenses all over and Oswald can _feel_ him coming, filling Oswald up. He arcs against Ed, pressing their chests flush, sucking harshly on his neck, dragging his tongue across the skin to soothe the lovebite.

Ed collapses finally, dropping his full weight onto Oswald. Oswald lets his legs slip from Ed’s waist, spread wide so the taller man rests between them. He strokes his hands down Ed’s back again, softer, gentling him, and it almost feels like Ed _sinks_ against him. His weight _should_ feel uncomfortable, but it doesn’t -- it feels warm and visceral and far too perfect.

There are little tremors running through Ed, his face buried into Oswald’s hair by his temple. Oswald rubs his hand over Ed’s shoulder, feeling the tight muscle there, and his fingers glide over a slight divot. And old injury? Oswald finds himself kneading the muscle gently, automatically, the way he does his knee when it aches. Ed’s chest reverberates against his and a groan rumbles into Oswald’s ear. He hides his smile against Ed’s neck, but a soft sigh escapes his lips as Ed seems to melt into him, coating all of Oswald’s old bitterness and exhaustion.

If only he could keep him like this, forever. But that is not his decision to make.

It’s a long time -- too long, really, but Oswald ignores that niggling thought -- before Ed stirs, his softened cock slipping from Oswald. Oswald blinks his eyes open, still lying spread, as Ed rises to his knees.

Ed smiles down at him, expression almost disappointed, and says: “I would prefer to stay longer, but I need to go…”

“That’s fine,” Oswald says. “I need to open the club, anyway, so…”

Ed quirks a smile and climbs down from the mattress, walking over to the neat pile of his and Oswald’s clothes. Oswald rolls to his side and surreptitiously follows Ed with his eyes, admiring the pale pinks lines on his back from Oswald’s fingernails and the flawless shape of the other man’s behind.

Ed’s halfway dressed when he turns back around and faces Oswald, expression blank. “I … won’t be able to come by for a few days,” Ed says.

Oswald blinks, unsure how to respond. “Oh. All right.”

“I’m sorry,” Ed says hastily. He fidgets, nervously. “But I’ve got a few things to set up with the maze, and I’ll be working around the clock.”

Oh, that explains it. “That’s fine,” Oswald says. And it is. Frankly, he’s surprised Ed told him. He realizes now that he’d been half expecting Ed to just stop showing up one day, when he’s decided he’s had enough. Having him visit every day always seemed too good to be true.

“Are you… I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Oswald’s eyes raise to Ed’s finally, thrown off by his pursual of the issue. “Ed, that’s fine,” he says slowly, eyes flickering over Ed’s expression.

He reads nervousness in the line of Ed’s brows and the slight downturn to his lips, but he can’t interpret anything more than that. Ed looks down at his hands, and Oswald’s eyes follow his.

Should he ask? It’s not necessarily trampling on any of their rules, but it does break precedent. Still, he wants to know - and at least if Ed stays away for a few days, that’ll help dissipate any awkwardness the conversation brings. Oswald breathes in deeply, building determination. “Ed, what’s wrong?”

Ed looks up at him, eyes dark and worried. He stares at Oswald for a moment, eyes flickering over his face, and Oswald tries to hold as still and honest as he can. Ed inhales sharply, finally, and says: “You don’t like sex that much, do you?”

“I’m sorry?” Oswald asks, dumbfounded.

“I didn’t --” Ed holds up a hand. “That wasn’t quite what I meant to say.”

“Have I given the impression..?” Oswald rises up onto his elbows, trying to stave off the automatic hurt.

“No!” Ed says hastily. “No, I'm sorry, that's not what I meant.”

“Good,” Oswald says faintly. He's not sure what he would've done if Ed had thought he wasn't enjoying it. He's not sure what he _could_ have done.

Ed fidgets for a moment before finally saying: “I mean it's not a priority to you.”

Oswald frowns, unsure if that’s meant to be a dig. “That's true, I suppose.”

“So you're fine with waiting,” Ed says, staring intently at his hands.

A laugh escapes Oswald. And he’d been worried. _This man_... “Ed, are you trying to ask me if I can cope with several consecutive days without sex?”

Ed bites his lip. “Yes?”

He looks so adorably concerned that Oswald can't help but hold his hand out, beckoning, and when Edward comes, wrapping his hand around the back of Ed’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. “Yes,” he says when they separate, “I will indeed survive a few days without sex, Ed, thank you for your concern.”

“I just wanted to make certain,” Ed says, mulishly, but he gives in when Oswald laughs and pulls him into another kiss, sinking to his knees on the bed to fall into Oswald’s embrace. The larger man is a comforting weight against him, solid and human and _there_. Oswald wishes fiercely that they could stay here forever, wrapped in each other’s arms, safe in their solitude.

~

His office _reeks_ of wine, and that’s the first sign something’s gone wrong.

The next is Fern’s pleased meow, and the third, when he finally locates her, dyed burgundy paws.

“Oh, for--! _Fern_!” It’s not a satisfying name to shout. It doesn’t sound _nearly_ angry enough. “Where--?!”

He locates the source: his crystal wine decanter, which had been _shut_ , and was stored in a cabinet, which was also _shut_. The decanter is shattered on the floor, glass shards twinkling in the light, dark red wine seeped into the floorboards. He’ll have to have the whole damn flooring torn out; this is _antique_ and modern stores don’t carry a matching pattern.

“Fern,” he says defeatedly.

“Pengy?”

“Ivy!” he snaps, turning to see her at his doorway. _Finally_ , someone to yell at who would _understand_ what he’s saying. “This demonic cat managed to get to the wine decanter _inside my cabinet_! The floor is ruined.”

“Ohhh…” she says sympathetically, stepping into the room. “ _And_ she’ll need a bath, huh?”

Oswald gives the cat a dark look. “I’m sure she can bathe herself. I’m certainly not going to.”

“You could have one of the housekeepers do it?” Ivy suggests hesitantly. She steps up beside Oswald, and together they stare down at the spill.

“At this rate, I’ll become a teetotaler,” Oswald says morosely, staring down at the shattered decanter. “Do you think Cat is trying to drive me insane?” he asks Ivy dourly. “Did I do something to anger her?”

Ivy frowns at him. “Oh come on, Pengy. She thought you’d like her.”

Oswald sighs, world-weary, and says, “I do, I _suppose_. I don’t think I’m inclined toward parenthood, Ivy. Even cat parenthood.”

“You can say that again,” Ivy mutters, darkly, and Oswald shoots her a look.

“You’d better call housekeeping if you want them to take care of that before opening,” Ivy suggests. “You have like, fifteen minutes.”

“Damn.” Oswald glances at the clock. She’s right; they took too long. Oh -- that thought brings forth the endless minutes of delightful torture, flooding his gaze with the sight of Ed undone, flushed and eyes unfocused. He shuts his eyes firmly and breathes in, forcing the images from his mind. “You’re right.”

Ivy puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “So you know, I talked to Derek and he’s very understanding and anyway, just let me know the minute you decide you want to go on a date, and I’ll take care of everything--”

“ _Ivy_ ,” Oswald says exasperatedly. “I’m too _busy_ right now.”

Ivy eyes him, looking disappointed. “Yeah, I thought you’d probably say that,” she mutters mutinously.

He furrows his brow. “What do you mean by that? I am!”

Ivy shakes her head, sharply, “Well just let me know. Also, I wanted to tell you, Ozzie: I’m going out for a few hours, but I’ll be back before closing. I need to use one of the suites tonight.”

“Take Room Three,” Oswald says hastily.

She pouts at him. “But One is the best!”

“I know, but the housekeeping staff,” Oswald says, preventing the blush from sheer force of will, “hasn’t been in yet. Three is almost as nice.”

“Fine,” she says haughtily, and she pecks Oswald on the tip of his nose. “I’ll see you later, Pengy!”

“Goodnight, Ivy,” he says, and, glancing at the clock again, calls housekeeping.

~

The club has settled into a relatively quiet evening and Oswald is making his rounds dispassionately. He finally has a glass of wine, but he can hardly bring himself to care. He keeps thinking back to… he keeps remembering…

His arrangement with Ed is going to end up causing more problems than it solves. He can hardly concentrate. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see Ed staring down at him, the hot and _full_ press of Ed inside him...

“Oswald.”

Oswald jumps, so unexpected is the voice. “Jim?” he asks, turning around to face the other man. “What brings you to my humble establishment?”

Jim seems to be doing well; he looks relatively well-rested and not nearly as cautious as he should be whilst he’s on Oswald’s turf. “I’ve heard some interesting reports that couldn’t _possibly_ be true,” Jim says, voice a little sarcastic. “And I thought I’d check for myself.”

Oswald tightens his grip on his cane. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Jim says, but doesn’t elaborate. His eyes dart over the crowd. Searching for someone?

Oswald glances around himself, irritation building. Who here has caught Jim’s attention? “Can I get you a drink?” Oswald asks finally, stiffly.

“Nah,” Jim says, eyes returning to Oswald. “I prefer legal imports.”

“Jim,” Oswald says, voice chastising. “I’m wounded.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Jim says. “Small crowd tonight?”

“Well it _is_ Monday,” Oswald informs him. “Even the most dedicated of attendees tend to take _some_ nights off.”

“Missing anyone in particular?” Jim continues, pinning Oswald with his gaze.

A nervous thrill runs through Oswald. _Oh no, please tell me this isn’t about…_

“For example, wanted criminals with an affection for the color green?”

Jim has inadvertently given him an opening, and he’s taking it. “Jim, I am _mortified_ that you would imply that Ivy Pepper, my dear ward, would commit any criminal acts. Such bias is unbecoming. Especially since she was left unprotected by the cruel indifference of you and your _noble_ institution, forced to make her way on the streets of this dangerous city alone. Until she found me.” He’s proud of himself for the pronouncement; Jim’s expression has transformed into a scowl. Oswald knows which places hurt him the deepest; he’s had many years to ferret them out. Oswald suppresses a smirk, pinning an innocent and mock-offended look onto his face.

Jim takes a step forward, and Oswald shifts his grip on his cane, instinctively ready to defend himself. These days, he cannot be too careful around Jim. He can sense a threat, but from what corner, he’s not sure. “Yeah,” Jim growls, and Oswald narrows his gaze on Jim’s eyes, pulse thudding in his throat, “and whose fault is it that she’s an orphan, again?”

Suddenly, a kaleidoscope of memories: the apartment, the necklace, the drop into the harbor, the _newspaper article_...

His hand _bursts_ into pain, and his throat is aching. Jim is staring at him with wary eyes, and Oswald looks down to see that the wineglass in his hand has shattered, embedding shards into his palm. As he watches, blood gushes from the wounds, nearly invisible against his black glove and blooming down his pale wrist like a macabre rose, dripping onto the marble flooring. The room feels quiet, and he’s not sure how many eyes are on him.

“Get out,” he says finally, voice obscured by the tension in his throat.

Jim takes a breath. “I’m not finished, Oswald. Where is Ed?”

“He’s not _here_ ,” Oswald says, eyes still focused on the steady trickle of blood from his hand. He feels strangely calm. “And if you show up again without a warrant I’ll have security deal with you.”

“They can try,” Jim says grimly. “But if I have reasonable suspicion--”

Oswald yanks his cane up as if to strike, eyes wild and adrenaline coursing through him. “ _I don’t care_!” he shrieks. “Get _out_!”

Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Jim goes, and Oswald is left standing, trembling with rage and _something else_ , steady flow of blood from his hand the only thing grounding him to reality.

~

“Oh, Pengy, what did you _do_?”

Oswald looks up to where she stands in the doorway to his office, startled. She’s here? What time is it? “Ivy?” he asks. There’s a small and gruesome pile of bloodied glass splinters on the surface of his desk.

He feels a painful throbbing in his left hand and his stomach turns as he remembers: _and whose fault is it that she’s an orphan_?

She lurches forward, pulling the door shut behind her. “No, seriously, Ozzie!” She reaches out and grabs his hand at the wrist, tugging it toward her. “How did this happen?”

“No matter,” Oswald says, yanking his hand from Ivy’s grasp. She scowls at him and grabs again, bumping one of the still-embedded shards as she does. Oswald hisses and sinks into his seat, stomach turning over. “Ivy, _really_ \--”

“Let me fix it!” she exclaims. “Or it’ll get infected and then you’ll need to get it _amputated_.”

“Then Fern and I will match,” Oswald says, his voice not as biting as he meant it to be. Where is the cat? What time is it? What happened after Jim left? It’s all a blank, which should be concerning. But he can only focus on the dread tickling his heart with icy fingers. _And whose fault is it_?

“Just-- stay here. I need to go get some supplies. Just don’t move, okay, Pengy?”

“Yes, all _right_ ,” he snaps, irritated, and Ivy smiles at him a little sheepishly.

She darts in to press a kiss to his forehead. “Sorry, I just worry. You’re the only family I have, too, Ozzie,” she says softly, and turns to rush from the room.

Oswald stares after her, heartbeat dull and ominous in his chest.

_And whose fault is it_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… if you remember, Oswald was the one who planted the evidence for the Wayne’s murder on Ivy’s father. Granted, it was on Fish’s orders, because Harvey asked her to, and not because Oswald wanted to, but… _**I am praying that the Gotham writers forgot about it because knowing them, if Ivy figures out she’ll probably turn on Oswald and then I WILL DIE**_. In canon, I don't think he would feel as guilty as he is depicted here, but fic!Oswald feels responsible for/protective of Ivy, and we know how seriously he takes familial bonds.  
>  (Also don’t worry, this will be resolved and I will not break your hearts okay.)


	6. You're Going?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS for: Mr. Leonard part deux, canon-typical violence, implied torture, graphic emotions, etc. :)**
> 
> Also I’m very bad at puzzles and mind games and riddles, so I merely _implied_ that there’s a puzzle in here and all the solving happens offscreen. Sorry.
> 
> I meant to have this out sooner but I've had a bit of a stressful week! ( ;n;) Hope you enjoy!  
> ~R

Several days pass in a blur.

He’s not thought about the Wayne murder in _years_ ; it almost feels like that life belonged to a different man. And _Gotham_ had been so different. Before the Batman, before the Joker, before _Ed_ , even. Maroni and Falcone, old-fashioned gangsters, had run the place. It’s so strange to think about. He still remembers Maroni’s gormless expression as Fish had shot him point blank; it’s etched into his mind in a strange moment of clarity from that fateful night, the moment he knew he had a chance to take control.

But now Mario Pepper has consumed his mind.

Could she forgive him? Would she? If Oswald doesn’t turn Ed over to Jim, which he _won’t_ , there’s no knowing what Jim might tell Ivy. What she might _believe_ , true or false, about Oswald’s involvement. And he _knows_ the pain of losing a parent; he’s held each of them in his arms as they died.

What would he have done if someone had purposefully brought his mother to Galavan’s attention? Would he have found it in his heart to forgive them? He doesn’t think so.

He’s lost everyone he cares about in his life, one by one, and he’s not prepared to lose Ivy.

He can lie.

But Jim knows.

He can say that _Jim_ is lying.

“Pengy?”

Oswald jerks his head up, staring confusedly at Ivy from his desk chair. The flooring was completed this afternoon, and he’s been _attempting_ to go through his files and put them in some semblance of order. But the sheaf of papers in his hand may as well be written in Greek for all that he knows what they are.

“Yes?” he asks curtly, shoving the papers into his top desk drawer.

“Are you okay?”

He doesn’t look up at her, busying himself with the stack of employee applications he’s looking over -- one of his enforcers has gone mysteriously missing. Risks of the trade. “As well as can be expected, Ivy, thank you.”

She waits quietly for a short while. “Are you… upset because the Riddler hasn’t been back?”

“No,” Oswald says absentmindedly, “he told me that would be the case.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be upset about it,” she points out.

Oswald sighs shortly. “Well, I’m not, Ivy.”

“I could invite Derek over?”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Oswald snaps, then blanches, gripping the edge of his desk tightly. “I apologize, Ivy,” he says hastily. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

She stares at him, eyebrows drawn. “Are you, like, a doppelganger? Where’s the Pengy I know and love?”

“What?”

“You _never_ apologize for yelling,” she says.

“And I’m sorry… about that,” he says, falteringly. “Ivy, I -- I think I need a drink. Where’s Fern?”

“Are memory loss and mood swings, like, withdrawal symptoms?” she asks, more concerned than Oswald would expect. Maybe he’s misreading her tone, but it doesn’t sound like she’s hyperbolizing for effect. “She’s right there, on the shelf,” Ivy says, pointing. “How _badly_ do you need alcohol?”

He lurches to his feet. “You have no idea,” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves his office.

“Hey, Ozzie,” Cat greets him as he reaches the bar. Oswald nods to her, not bothering to reply as he debates between drink choices -- he decides on whiskey; he doesn’t want to risk Fern’s interference. As he pours himself a tumbler, he forces his concerns to the back of his mind, determined to think about them when he’s alone. If Ivy’s already that worried about him, he’s been far too obvious.

“So you know,” Cat continues, eying his drink, “the GCPD has been getting super antsy.”

Oswald scowls, taking a sizable gulp of the whiskey. “I thought as much. Ed’s been antagonizing them.”

“And even _worse_ ,” Cat continues, “I think he pissed off the Joker -- there’s been some rumblings.”

“Anything specific?” Oswald asks.

“No-o,” Cat drawls. “Neither of them are really _traditional_ about these kinds of things, you know. It’s a wonder I know anything at all.”

“Ah, Cat,” Oswald says, feeling strangely charitable. “That’s hardly a surprise. You _are_ my best informant, after all.”

Cat dips her head, taking the compliment as her due. “Is _he_ an informant now?” Cat asks, too casually.

Ivy shows up, holding Fern in her arms. “No, he’s just _hanging around_. Did you charge him a consult fee?”

“No, I didn’t,” Oswald says, exasperatedly. “Having him as an ally is worth far more than a few hundred.”

“Uh, by my count he’s up to like several thousand. How many hours has he been here?”

“I haven’t been _counting_ ,” Oswald says icily.

“Aaaanyway,” Cat interrupts, “he hasn’t drawn Batman’s attention yet. But Gordon and the others have been racing all around town. I heard Gordon stopped by here?”

Oswald scowls down at his bandaged hand. “Yes,” he says shortly.

Ivy shifts Fern in her arms, a nervous frown on her face. “Ozzie, seriously. What did he do?”

“I’d rather not get into it.” Cat raises an eyebrow. “Jim Gordon and I have far more history than you two can imagine,” he continues, grimly, “and by all rights, _he_ owes _me_.” Oswald takes another sip of whiskey. “He doesn’t see it that way, of course. Unfortunately, word of Ed’s appearance here on Sunday reached him, and Jim stopped by wanting to know if he could be found here. I sent him on his way.”

“Whatever you said didn’t stop him looking,” Cat tells him.

“I didn’t expect it to,” Oswald tells her. “I’m only hoping he’ll stay away from the Lounge. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Cat says, pulling an envelope out of one of her many pockets. “A street kid handed this to me. Said you’d know who it was from.”

“ _That’s_ not ominous,” Oswald says darkly. He holds out his hand, and Cat passes him the envelope.

It’s light; there’s nothing more than paper inside. He sets the whiskey down and pulls out a switchblade to slice it open.

There’s a single folded paper inside, heavyweight. Oswald unfolds it and lays it out on the bar counter, Ivy and Cat each crowding by one of his shoulders to peer down at it. It’s a map of Gotham and the surrounding land, marked with X’s and a series of incomprehensible numbers along the margin. It’s written in green ink, so no question as to who it’s from.

“It’s the Riddler, isn’t it,” Cat says flatly.

“Yes,” Oswald says crisply. “I don’t think anyone else would bother to give me a puzzle.”

“Okay, but it makes no sense. It’s like a really crappy treasure map,” Ivy says skeptically.

“Maybe he’s finally totally lost it,” Cat suggests.

Oswald’s eyes dart over the map, consideringly. He’s sure it must mean _something_ , but maybe he ought to call in a few of his more puzzle-minded lackeys to see if they can make sense of it.

But wait -- he sees a mark over the warehouse Ed used, over Oswald’s family mansion (still his, but left empty and preserved like a museum exhibit of simpler times), and the section of the woods Ed had found him in, so long ago, and more....

It’s a puzzle meant for _him_ , unsolvable by anyone who doesn’t know their history.

He feels a fond smile break out on his face, and he stifles it as best he can. He can feel both Ivy and Cat’s eyes on him, regardless. “It’s for me,” he says. “I’ll need -- oh, I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

He’s still not fond of puzzles, but the fact that this one is meant for _him_ makes him feel young, stupid, _adoring_.

~

“You’re going?”

Cat’s voice is skeptical, Ivy’s worried. Oswald turns to face the two of them where they stand at the entrance to his office, fiddling with his tie pin to get it to lay correctly. Fern meows from her perch in Cat’s arms, loud and long.

“Yes,” he says. “We _are_ allies now, after all.”

“Ozzie,” Ivy says, voice careful. “When’s the last time you met someone outside the Iceberg?”

Oswald frowns, considering. Well, he saw Ed last week, but that hadn’t been intentional. Before then…

Hm.

“ _I told you he didn’t realize_!” Cat says, sotto voce.

“Realize what?” Oswald demands.

“ _Cat_ \--” Ivy hisses.

“You _never_ leave!” Cat exclaims, exasperated. “You just spend every night here, wandering around and talking to people, and you order your lackeys around and control all of the shipments in and out of the city but you seriously _don’t do anything else_!”

Oswald gapes at her.

_Is she right_?

“Seriously! You don’t have to be here every night! Go on a date with Derek! Go murder someone! I don’t care! But it’s _really sad_ watching you sit around and do nothing! You used to be _way_ cooler,” she adds.

“Is..?” Oswald says faintly, looking over at Ivy for confirmation.

Ivy looks guilty, but she nods apologetically. “She’s right, Pengy. That’s why I wanted you to go out with Derek.”

Is he really that bad? Oswald swallows, looking down at the ground. When did it change? How did he never realize?

“But…” Ivy says, and he looks up at her, “if you want to go meet the Riddler… that works too? I just want to make sure you’re safe,” she finishes miserably.

His eyes dart over her face, her expression worried and a little guilty. He feels a dull pang as he remembers Jim’s threat. Would she still be worried for him, if she knew?

He takes a deep breath. “Well. I’ll … consider that,” he says, lamely. “I’ll be safe with Ed,” he adds. “He doesn’t pose a threat right now, and I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“If you’re sure,” Ivy says, and he nods.

“Don’t bother coming back until the club’s closed,” Cat says. “I won't let you inside.” She takes a few steps toward him and shifts Fern in her arms so she can point at him more threateningly. “Seriously, this place can survive without you for one night.”

Oswald raises an eyebrow but dips his head in acknowledgement.

Ivy darts forward and kisses his forehead, softly. “Okay then. Be safe! Call me if you need anything.”

“I will,” Oswald promises, and walks out of his office and the Iceberg, out into the cold night air.

~

Ed’s new hideout is, by all appearances, an abandoned apartment building. Oswald hopes the interior bears more promise.

The door swings open to reveal Ed, and Oswald’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes Ed is wearing a sweater and trousers, dressed down like Oswald hasn’t seen him in years. His heart feels heavy in his chest at the sight. Ed looks him over, methodically, and pauses when he sees Oswald’s hand.

“You’re hurt.”

Oswald looks down at it, startled. “Oh… yes. It’s nothing serious.”

“How?” Ed asks, reaching out and taking Oswald’s wrist into his grip. He tugs Oswald’s hand up, scrutinizing the bandage with a discerning eye.

“Glass,” Oswald says vaguely. “Someone upset me.”

Ed’s eyes slide up to meet Oswald’s, a strange kind of hunger in them. “Were they punished appropriately?”

The odd phrasing sends a desirous thrill sparking through Oswald, but with effort, he suppresses any noticeable reaction. “Unfortunately, no. This one always seems to wriggle out of his punishments.”

A dark look crosses Ed’s face. “Do you want me to deal with him?”

A smile quirks Oswald’s lips, and he gently tugs his hand out of Ed’s grip. “You are welcome to try, but I believe he’ll pose the same difficulty for _you_ as he does for _me_.”

“Oh?” Ed asks, stepping aside to allow Oswald to enter.

“It was Jim,” Oswald says finally, voice a little rueful. “I feel I should really know better than to rise to his taunts, but he always manages…” Oswald trails off as he notices Ed’s calculating eyes on him. He can’t tell Ed -- if he mentions what Jim said about Ivy, Oswald can only _imagine_ Ed’s reaction. Sneering, smug righteousness: _you don’t deserve anyone, Oswald, you’re too cruel and narcissistic and selfish._

And Oswald would never be able to face him again.

Or perhaps he would. Perhaps the appeal of Ed’s hands on his bare skin would be enough to draw him back. And _that’s_ the pathetic thing: Ed has said all that to him, and worse, albeit years ago now. Ed has hated him, manipulated him, _ridiculed_ him. Yet here Oswald is. Hurrying to appear at his beck and call.

“He’s not worth troubling yourself,” Ed says, and Oswald snorts. It almost sounds like he’s advising Oswald against Ed himself, and Oswald thinks sarcastically: _good luck_.

“Don’t bother, Ed,” he says aloud. “I would imagine we are much in the same boat when it comes to him.”

Ed shifts on his feet, as if unsure, before reaching out and grasping Oswald’s shoulder. He tugs Oswald toward him, pressing his lips to the shorter man’s mouth too hastily, and their noses bump clumsily. Oswald immediately relaxes to the reassurance of Ed’s touch, reaching out with his uninjured hand to grasp his jacket.

They spend long, lingering moments like that, and when Ed pulls away, Oswald clings to his jacket in protest. But Ed smiles down at him and brightly says: “I have dinner,” and Oswald can’t help but smile and accept.

~

“Okay, Ed, what is it?” Oswald demands, setting his fork down beside his plate.

The interior of the apartment building is indeed much better than the exterior, although it’s obviously been outfitted in a mismatched industrial fashion, the appliances and furniture most likely stolen. Oswald finds it weirdly charming, especially when he realizes that each piece must have been picked out by Ed specifically, for some feature or another. Oswald’s furniture was presented by a room designer and approved or vetoed by Oswald; it’s a much less personal touch.

They’re seated together at a small dining table, their plates inches apart, faces a few feet apart. Ed’s eyes are dark and amused, and he grins at Oswald from across the table before shoving another forkful into his mouth and leaving the question unanswered. Oswald huffs, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been giving me significant looks the whole meal - _not like that_ ,” Oswald says.

Ed swallows and sets his fork down. “I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Your inability to control your facial expressions is doing that already,” Oswald says. He’s startled as a scowl crosses Ed’s face, and hastily he adds: “I was never a particular fan of surprises.”

Ed’s lip twitches and he draws his fingers over the lip of his glass of water. “It’ll be easier to show you. You should finish your dinner first.”

Oswald smiles, ruefully, and picks his fork back up. “Is it a _good_ surprise, at least?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ed says firmly. “I think you’ll find it very enjoyable.”

Oswald smirks and takes another bite, and Ed’s eyes blaze as they meet his. His look is _hungry_ , and it reminds Oswald of his eagerness back when he was using Oswald as a mentor to learn a life of crime. Oswald’s eyes narrow, and then he smooths his face back out into a blithe smile: he knows what the surprise is.

His mouth waters at the thought.

Cat was right, wasn’t she? He’s been very boring lately.

Time for that to change.

~

“What’s his name?” Oswald asks as Ed is putting the dishes in the sink.

Ed looks down at him, eyes wide and guileless. “Whose?”

Oswald steps up, sliding between Ed and the counter. He rests his bandaged hand against Ed’s chest, bringing the other up to stroke Ed’s cheekbone. “Our guest,” he says, quietly, eyes drawn inexorably to Ed’s lips. He watches as they quirk upward.

“How did you guess?” Ed asks softly, pleased.

Oswald drags his finger down to Ed’s lips, tracing the soft skin. The truth is he _knows_ Ed, recognizes that expression on his face. But to say that may be too close to discussing their past friendship.

Instead he pulls Ed down and kisses him, slotting his leg between Ed’s thighs and pressing against him. Ed’s mouth opens immediately against his, warm and receptive, and Oswald pulls him closer, until their chests are pressed flush and their legs are intertwined.

“Show me,” Oswald says when he breaks the kiss, voice low and intent.

Ed grins down at him. “This way.”

Ed wraps his hand around one of Oswald’s wrists, easily circling the joint, and tugs Oswald after him as he leaves the kitchen. “I hope you like him.”

“Like him?” Oswald asks, nonplussed. “This isn’t some hapless passersby, then?”

“Oh, no,” Ed says hastily, glancing back to Oswald. “No, this was a little side project. Something to occupy me.”

“I thought you were busy,” Oswald says skeptically.

“Well… yes,” Ed says, coming to a stop near what appears to be a closet door. “I am.” He shifts his grip on Oswald’s wrist, pressure becoming a little more intent. Oswald eyes him, curiously, as he straightens and says with a flourish: “Well, here he is!” throwing the closet door open as he does so.

Oswald eyes the hapless man: blindfolded, gagged, handcuffed. There’s a wet spot on the front of his jeans, indicating that he’s been here for a while.

“That’s…” Oswald says, “Mike Miller.”

“Yes,” Ed says, turning to Oswald with a too-wide grin. “It is.”

A rush of irritation passes through Oswald, and he tugs his arm out of Ed’s grip, huffily. “He’s one of my _enforcers_ ,” Oswald says. “We’ve been rushing to replace him since he went missing - two days ago. Why is he _here_ , Ed?”

Ed claps his hands together, expression gleeful. “Yes, he _was_ one of your enforcers. Oswald -- I am an empty void. Throw all the gold in the world and not a single inch of me will be filled. I resound in everyone… What am I?”

“Ed,” Oswald says exasperatedly, dropping his head into one of his hands. “Explain.”

Ed laughs, skeleton grin etched onto his face. “It’s greed! He was skimming some off the top,” Ed explains. “Once your new enforcer is in place, you’ll notice your profit margin increasing quite dramatically.”

Oswald’s eyes dart over Ed’s face, checking for sincerity there. “If that’s the case…” he says finally, “thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Ed says, smugly, and gestures to Miller with an air of showmanship. “Where do you want him?”

Oswald snorts and asks: “Cleanup?”

Ed waves a dismissive hand. “Taken care of.”

“Living room,” Oswald says decisively. “Wouldn't want to contaminate food areas.”

Ed claps his hands together and says: “Excellent! Go ahead and I'll bring him.”

When Oswald steps into the living room he sees a surgeon's metal tray and an array of tools atop it. Oswald smirks, partly amused and partly annoyed: Ed just _had_ to show off his ability to predict Oswald’s decisions. He doesn’t begrudge the man. As long as he and Ed are not diametrically opposed, he finds Ed’s foresight impressive and charming. And Ed seems to thrive off of opportunities to demonstrate his intellect. The man certainly has an astonishing ego: giant and incredibly fragile.

He reaches out and plucks a scalpel from the tray, tilting it so the light glints off its polished surface. Unless he has a particular, personal, grudge, he usually prefers to keep his weapons simple and easy-to-use. Nothing worse than flubbing a kill because you aren’t skilled with your weapon of choice.

“These look medical-grade,” he comments idly as the sound of Ed dragging the man’s chair reaches his ears.

“That’s because they are,” Ed says cheerily, just slightly winded. “Nothing but the best.”

Oswald turns on his heel to watch Ed drag the man the last few feet. He’s started to whimper through the gag, quietly and pathetically.

“I don’t know _why_ you thought it was a good idea to cross me,” Oswald says mildly, faintly disapproving. “It was just a matter of _time_.”

“Gloves?” Ed suggests, plucking up a box of surgical gloves and holding them aloft. “Latex-free!”

Oswald’s eyes narrow as he observes Ed. They shouldn’t need -- _oh_. He _enjoys_ murder, but he’s always had a suspicion that Ed derives a distinct _pleasure_ from the act itself. If that’s the case -- well, they won’t want any blood dirtying their hands.

“Please,” Oswald says. He slips the scalpel into his pocket, delicately. “Only one, and I’ll need you to put it on.” He holds up his bandaged hand, demonstratively.

“Of course,” Ed says graciously.

He meets Oswald’s eyes as he slips the glove over his hand, making the act feel oddly sexual. Oswald stares back at Ed, determined not to be outdone, and drags his tongue over his lower lip. Ed’s eyes darken, and he glances down at Oswald’s lips almost nervously. Oswald turns back to Miller, retrieving the scalpel.

“Well, Mike,” Oswald says, false-jovially, “looks like your time on this Earth has been significantly reduced.” He reaches out to tug the gag out of his mouth and to his chin, grimacing slightly as drool leaks out of the unfortunate man’s mouth. “Any last words?”

“I'm sorry,” the man gasps, halfway to a sob.

“Oh,” Oswald coos, mock-pitying. “You will be.”

He plunges the scalpel into Mike’s thigh without further warning, feeling a grin break out on his face as the man screams mindlessly, obviously unaccustomed to receiving pain.

“These types,” he says thoughtfully to Ed, just loud enough to be heard over the screaming, “always think they're extremely tough. I've always thought that toughness had more to do with tolerance to pain than the ability to inflict it.” He yanks the blade from his thigh, watching blood gush from the wound.

“I couldn't agree more,” Ed says to him, voice breathless. In his hand he holds a rongeur, and Oswald eyes the implement with interest. Ed clacks it open and shut in response to Oswald’s look. “Fingers or toes?” he asks jauntily, eyes focused on Oswald’s mouth.

“Fingers,” Oswald tells him. “Otherwise he'll pass out before we get to the fun part.”

“Right you are,” Ed says.

Their play is extensive, and as Mike's screams drop off into mindless whimpers, Oswald feels his eyes drawn to Ed again and again. It's been so long since he's seen Ed like this, truly in his element, bloodlust burning in his eyes. And Ed looks back at him just as often, glee in his eyes, a familiarity to the look. It may as well be years ago: they work together as if they've never been apart, anticipating each other's movements.

But this time, Oswald recognizes when Ed's breath grows shorter and harder, the jerkiness of his movements revealing his preoccupation. When Oswald glances down, he sees the hardness between Ed’s legs, and with an eager smile he steps up to the taller man.

Ed looks down at him, eyes wide, as Oswald slips his thigh between Ed’s and presses against him, rubbing slightly. Ed gasps brokenly and drops the rongeur, which clatters against the floor. “Ed,” Oswald tells him then. “I think that's enough, don't you?”

Ed stares, seeming uncomprehending, and Oswald smiles fondly up at him.

He steps away, and Ed makes a frustrated noise, but he holds up the scalpel demonstratively. Ed watches him, keenly, as Oswald walks behind Mike and perfunctorily drags the scalpel across his throat.

The dispatch is quick, efficient, the blood spray short and heavy. He always catches them on the jugular. Oswald allows the scalpel to slip from his gloved hand, wet with blood, and clatter onto the wood floor. Ed leans toward him on his feet, as if unable to stop himself from reaching out.

Seeing Ed so keen has Oswald rushing to him in an instant, wrapping his arm around Ed’s shoulders and dragging him down to devour his mouth. Ed whines against his lips, his own arms coming around Oswald’s back.

“I need you to strip,” Oswald pants, dragging his palm over Ed’s clothed cock, his dirty surgical glove staining the fabric with blood.

Ed nods eagerly, lifting his hands from Oswald’s hips. He captures Oswald’s hand and yanks off his glove first, and then his own gloves quickly, and he allows them to fall to the floor with a disconcerting _splat_. He grabs the bottom hem of his sweater and Oswald backs away, holding his bandaged hand up and awkwardly to the side.

“Couch,” Oswald suggests as Ed hurriedly unfastens his belt, and when Ed looks up at him with wide eyes Oswald smirks, dropping his hands to Ed’s waist and guiding him backward, unsteadily, until Ed’s lowered pants trip him up and he falls backward onto the couch, hair wild and glasses slipping down his nose.

Oswald yanks off Ed’s shoes and tugs his pants down his legs, and Ed writhes against the couch. He spreads his legs immediately once he’s free, making room for Oswald, and reaches out to him with one hand.

“Lube?” Oswald asks, staring down at Ed.

Ed stares up at him blankly, hand landing on Oswald’s forearm. It’s trembling slightly.

“Okay,” Oswald says impatiently, and wraps his lips around three of his fingers.

Ed’s hand wraps around Oswald’s wrist, and Oswald looks down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. He takes his own fingers in deeper, wetting them as best he can, and when he finally releases them Ed drags his hand down and presses it against his opening.

Oswald strokes his fingers over him, wetting him slightly, and Ed gasps and spreads his legs wider. “ _Oswald_ ,” he says insistently, fingers tightening around Oswald’s wrist until his bones creak.

“Shush,” Oswald says, a little chidingly. He can feel his pulse thundering in his wrist. He’s not sure if he likes the sensation or not, but Ed is seemingly unaware of his own grip, eyes shut and mouth open wide to pants. He presses inside Ed with two fingers and the grip slackens somewhat, freeing him to move his fingers in and out with little jolting thrusts.

He hadn’t paid it too much consideration before, but ever since Ed stimulated his prostate he’s been desperate to do the same to him, to see Ed out of his mind with full-body pleasure the way Oswald had felt. And Ed is already mindless, writhing under his hands and - Oswald suspects - hard since first blood was drawn.

“That was a lovely surprise, Ed,” Oswald tells him determinedly, watching Ed's expression carefully. “You looked _fantastic_. _Wild_.”

He sees the moment he finds the right spot: Ed tenses against him and gives a breathy shout, his free hand grasping the couch arm desperately. His breath turns to wild pants, mouth open wide, eyes pressed shut tight.

“You chose excellently,” Oswald tells him. “That was wonderful. I've missed it, Ed, and _that_ was…” Ed shudders and whines as Oswald presses insistently against him, his breath going high pitched. Oswald isn't even sure Ed can hear him anymore, and he curls his fingers carefully, watching Ed jerk against the cushions like a marionette.

“...that was delightful,” Oswald continues fervently, his eyes hungrily devouring Ed’s mindless pleasure, watching him writhe against the cushions, burying his face in his shoulder. “Blood complements you - you should have _seen_ the look on your face, Ed … Ed?”

Ed's shoulders are shaking, his face buried in his own shoulder. Oswald leans over him and presses his bandaged hand to Ed’s cheek, nervously. “Ed?” he asks again, voice quiet, trembling slightly.

Ed gasps and opens his eyes wide, staring up at Oswald, and Oswald jerks his hand from Ed’s cheek. “Please--!”

“What?” Oswald demands hurriedly. “I-I -- Ed, are you--?”

“ _More_ ,” Ed insists, tears in his eyes spilling onto his cheeks. Oswald brings his bandaged hand nervously back to Ed’s cheek, and Ed leans into the touch, mouth open to quiet sobbing pants.

“Y-you’re a sight to behold,” Oswald says, heart thundering in his chest, nervous excitement in each breath. “Your passion for murder has always amazed me, Ed,” he bites his lip, worried, but Ed continues to stare up at him, enraptured. “Your mind is unlike any other - I knew that as soon as we truly knew each other, that your keen insight would make you one of the greatest villains Gotham has ever known -- Ed -- I --” There are tears burning in his eyes and this hardly feels like sex anymore but Ed is gasping under him, his grip on Oswald’s wrist guiding Oswald’s movement and _finally_ he seizes, his mouth open in a gasp of pleasure and Oswald blinks fiercely, forcing his emotions down and burying them under the layer of desire that he still feels at the sight of Ed coming onto his own stomach, fingers digging into Oswald’s shoulders.

Oswald holds back a teary laugh at the sight of Ed so debauched, biting his tongue and leaning over Ed. He wants _more_ of it, wants to watch Ed come _again_ , but Ed's breath is ragged and his eyes are still glimmering with tears and Oswald takes pity on him, pressing his lips to Ed's and invading his mouth with his tongue, tasting heartbreaking desire there.

“Are you ready?” Oswald asks against his lips, and Ed nods so eagerly that Oswald loses his lips. Oswald glances up at him and sees his dark eyes staring into Oswald’s, pupils blown and dazed with the intensity of his desire.

“Good,” Oswald tells him and pulls back, gripping Ed by the shoulders and shifting him until he falls back into the couch, lengthwise. He looks up at Oswald, eyes fascinated, as Oswald pulls off his jacket and shirt with hasty, uncoordinated moves, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. As soon as he's free he throws himself on top of Ed on the couch. Ed squirms against him, spreading his legs eagerly to make room for Oswald between them. A noise escapes Oswald that is nearly a growl, possessive and impatient. He strokes his cock perfunctorily and leans over Ed, taking in the sight of his chest and arms and spent cock before capturing Ed’s lips with his own.

Ed is eager and ready and Oswald pushes inside him with hardly any pause, Ed’s arms and legs wrapping around him, vise-like. Inside he is hot and tight, surrounding Oswald. As Oswald fills him completely, he is struck by a sense of utter _rightness_ : this is where he belongs, where he wishes he could remain forever.

Ed pushes against him and whines, and Oswald thrusts into him, pressing him against the couch, watching Ed’s mouth drop open into an O, ecstasy blanketing his expression. He grips Oswald tighter as Oswald thrusts again, hampering his movement but filling his heart with hungry desire.

His movements grow faster and harsher and Ed clings to him, gasping into his ear as he thrusts, thighs tightening around Oswald’s waist, fingers digging into Oswald’s back.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he pants up at Oswald, eyes shut and mouth open. Possessive adoration floods Oswald’s veins as he fucks him, chasing his heat. He bites Ed’s collarbone, gently, and Ed spasms around his cock, sending wild pleasure jolting up Oswald’s spine. He opens his eyes and looks up at Ed’s face, contorted in bliss, and when a final desperate whine escapes Ed’s lips he comes, pulsing, filling Ed up and digging his fingers into Ed’s skin.

“Thank you,” Ed gasps out again, voice ragged, and Oswald feels a desperate desire to be even closer, to pin him down and hold him captive. But Ed’s legs stay wrapped around him as he lowers his weight onto Ed’s chest, and his arms still cling to Oswald eagerly. He doesn’t have to hold him captive, Oswald thinks, heart thundering in his chest: Ed wants to stay. His breath leaves him in a gentle little sigh.

He rests against Ed, ignoring the niggling sensation that he ought to get up and clean them off. It feels too wonderful: Ed clinging to him, slowing breaths ruffling the hair on Oswald’s head, his heat, his familiar scent.

He shifts a little and Ed murmurs a protest, his arms tightening around Oswald’s back. Oswald smiles, nearly smug, and buries his face into Ed’s neck. They can wait here for a little while longer. There are no demands, no responsibilities: just the feel of Ed’s body against his, serenity easing through them both. A soft noise escapes Ed’s lips, and Oswald feels a rush of affection and opens his mouth on instinct.

_I love you_ , Oswald thinks clear as a bell, breath catching in his throat, eyelashes fluttering over suddenly tear-filled eyes.

He shuts his mouth and swallows harshly, sliding his hand up Ed’s chest and neck to cup his cheek, thumb stroking over his closed eyelid, catching on skin tacky from dried tears.

It’s not as if he didn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized retroactively that some of you might think it was Derek. Er -- it wasn’t. I’m still not entirely sure what I’m going to do with him, but I’m going to reintroduce him later, because I am trying to tie off all my plot threads by the end. <3


	7. You Seem Distant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Oswald accidentally talk about substantial things.
> 
> Later than I hoped again but a bit longer than usual and -- wait for it -- _two sex scenes_. Also this chapter is disgustingly sappy on all counts.
> 
> For the future -- to get a bit real, I’ve got some big IRL stuff going on, which may mean slower updates. But please know that I basically spend half of my life thinking about this fic and _hopefully_ the updates will pick up. :)
> 
> Anyway. Hope you enjoy. <3  
> ~R

Ed’s apartment is quiet.

The only things Oswald hears are Ed’s heartbeat, their soft breaths, and the tick of the clock. His heart aches, but it’s a good ache, a loving ache. For now he can indulge without fear of rejection -- for now, at least, he has a right to be here. A right to rest his head on Ed’s shoulder and stroke his fingers along Ed’s collarbone, admiring the topography of his body.

He brings his hand up Ed’s neck, feeling the now-slow and steady pulse in his throat, the faint traces of stubble on his chin, and finally rests his palm against Ed’s cheek, stroking his thumb to gently brush Ed’s eyelashes. His lids flutter faintly, sleepily, and a sigh escapes his lips.

“Ed,” Oswald says softly.

Ed shifts underneath him and murmurs: “Hmm?”

“We should clean up.”

“Hmm,” Ed hums agreeably. Oswald hides his smile in the curve of Ed’s neck. Several moments pass by, Ed’s arms still wrapped tight around him, his hand still resting on Ed’s cheek.

“Ed,” Oswald says finally, a giddy laugh buiding up in his chest, “we need to get up.”

Ed finally blinks his eyes open and tilts his head awkwardly to meet Oswald’s eyes. He blinks, almost seeming startled at the sight of Oswald, and his arms tighten around Oswald. “No,” Ed says immediately, and then blinks again, looking adorably confused. “What?”

Oswald is certain the expression on his face is too loving, too adoring, and he feels a sudden flash of self-consciousness; but Ed had never been able to read Oswald’s feelings before, anyway. It seemed he could only ever read the negative characteristics of Oswald’s love: the jealousy, the unearned possessiveness, the destructive selfishness.

He never did acknowledge the sacrifice Oswald had been willing to make.

Ed’s eyes are bewildered, looking Oswald over, and Oswald realizes he’s been quiet too long. “Do you have a bathtub?” Oswald asks hastily, bringing his hand back down to rest on Ed’s upper chest.

“Yes,” Ed says, voice muted.

“We’re filthy, Ed,” Oswald says fondly.

“You want…” Ed trails off, staring down at him.

“Is it big enough for two?” Oswald asks to help him along, and Ed nods eagerly.

Oswald smirks and licks a stripe along the side of Ed’s neck. “Perfect,” he says, patting Ed on the chest. Ed still looks a bit dazed, and Oswald figures it will be easier for both of them if he goes ahead. “Wait here,” he tells Ed, “I’ll start it.”

Ed stares after him as he hoists himself off of Ed and the couch. His arms let go reluctantly, but he doesn’t verbally protest; and Oswald leans down and presses a kiss to Ed’s cheek before puzzling his way to a likely door -- and when he opens it, he finds he’s correct, though the room seems a bit _odd_ , for reasons he’s not certain of.

It’s simple enough to set the bathwater running, and Oswald begins digging through cupboards to look for something to add to the water - _anything_ , really; he keeps a stash of bubbles, bath salts, et cetera, on hand, but he doubts it’s one of Ed’s priorities. The man had never much been one for self-indulgence.

He carefully and slowly kneels down by a likely cabinet, gripping the sink edge as he does so, and prepares to search. Before he gets too far, there’s a huff of breath by the door. He turns to find Ed standing there, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Oswald looks up at him and smiles, warm and easy. “It’s almost ready - I was wondering if you had anything to add to it? Like bath salts?”

Ed nods and turns to reach into the cupboard next to him. Oswald grips the sink edge and hoists himself to his feet, and when he looks back up Ed is retrieving a small jar of what looks like bath salts. He reaches back into the cupboard, twisting his torso and revealing his back to Oswald’s scrutiny.

Oswald’s mouth drops open, shocked.

It’s only now that he realizes he and Ed have only been naked together in low, yellow lighting -- here, in the bathroom lit brightly by fluorescents, he sees Ed’s back clearly for the first time. There is an unnerving latticework of scars - white and shiny, perhaps decades old - covering the whole of his back, from his shoulders to just below his hips. They’re thin, long, irregular and wicked -- Oswald is familiar with scars and recognizes these as lashmarks. With a dull sense of dread, he realizes there’s only one logical reason for him to have so _many_ from so long ago, and for them to have remained a secret in the entire time they’ve known each other.

Oswald suppresses a shudder. He remembers the _torture_ of being mistreated by his stepfamily; and he’d been an adult, and they’d hardly laid hands on him at all. He could hardly imagine someone like that being responsible for Ed in his youth, in his innocence. It’s horrifying. It’s _sick_.

How had he not noticed? His fingers are coarse, calloused, and he supposes the old scars are probably not very pronounced, but…

_Too self-absorbed,_ Oswald thinks hollowly. _As usual_.

A noise must have escaped him because Ed spins around to look at him, expression stricken. Ed sets the jar on the counter with a clatter and immediately moves jerkily to the lightswitch, avoiding Oswald’s eyes as he flips it, plunging them both into darkness. Sparkles dance in Oswald’s vision, dazed by the sudden change, and he reaches out blindly to catch Ed’s hand.

Ed freezes completely, and Oswald can’t even hear his breaths anymore. Concerned, Oswald brings Ed’s hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the palm of his hand. He hears Ed inhale, sharply.

“For a long time after Fish maimed me, I couldn’t show anyone my leg.” He’s fibbing, slightly, but Ed doesn’t need to hear about his mother’s unconditional love right now. “And _I_ deserved my scar.”

Ed jerks his hand, as if to tug it out of Oswald’s grasp, but too weakly to have his heart behind it. Oswald clings to him tighter.

“You know how hideous my knee is, Ed, and I--”

“No,” Ed says immediately.

“It _is_ ,” Oswald corrects, gently, “but it doesn’t _matter_.”

Ed stills, and Oswald draws him a little closer, bringing his bandaged hand to rest on Ed’s waist. He’s breathing regularly now, at least, his breaths quiet and short but steady.

“It’s a part of me, a part of my past. But it doesn’t define me. Dar--” _ling_. Oswald snaps his mouth shut. He breathes in deeply through his nose before continuing. “It’s painful. It makes my life more difficult. I hate it, sometimes. But it’s just a part of me, not the whole.”

He feels Ed’s forehead fall onto his shoulder, impact rocking him on his feet. “I’m sorry,” Ed says dully, and his voice sounds all _wrong_.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Oswald says, a little frustrated at his inability to convey the right thoughts. “No, Ed, you haven’t done anything wrong. I just want you to know that I understand.”

Ed shakes his head, a sound of frustration escaping him.

“You didn’t deserve it,” Oswald says, leaning his head against Ed’s, his mouth next to Ed’s ear and Ed’s hair pressing into his cheek.

“I _did_ ,” Ed gasps, shoulders shaking a little. “I _did_.”

Oswald narrows his eyes. Arguing against Ed will only drive him, stubbornly, further into his misguided perspective. Instead, he leans in close to murmur into Ed’s ear. “Then what did you do?” he asks. “What did you do to deserve it?”

Ed shudders and the sound that escapes him is too much like a sob. Part of Oswald wants to drop it, to pull Ed with him into the bath and pretend that none of this has happened. But there’s a danger to that -- they’re opening up an old wound and if Oswald doesn’t provide reassurance Ed may never be comfortable around him again, naked or not.

“I… _cheated_ ,” Ed says, voice devastated. “I was a liar. I…” He clings to Oswald, and Oswald slips his arms up to encircle Ed’s waist in response. “I’m bad,” he finishes finally.

Oswald strokes the flat of his palm up Ed’s back. He still can’t feel the scars, even knowing they’re there: they must be very subtle. Selfishly, he feels a little better about his obliviousness. “You cheated?” he asks, voice quiet.

“I…” He can hear Ed swallow, harshly. “There was a contest. A puzzle contest. I cheated.”

Oswald frowns, genuinely confused. “You mean to tell me you couldn’t solve a puzzle?” he asks automatically, forgetting himself. Ed tenses in his arms, and he smoothes his hand down Ed’s flank. “It seems uncharacteristic,” he says, quieter and slower.

“Well -- I -- I couldn’t have,” Ed stammers, seeming confused. “I couldn’t have done it. It was too difficult for a --”

Abruptly he tilts his head and buries his nose into Oswald’s neck. “I don’t want to say it,” he mutters, voice muffled.

“You don’t have to,” Oswald reassures him. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

Ed’s shoulders raise and fall shakily. “I was a cheater and a liar.”

Oswald sighs. “You are many things, Ed, but not, I think, a cheater _or_ a liar.”

Ed trembles against him. Oswald is suddenly aware that they’re both standing naked, and the room is cooler than he’d like. “Come, Ed, let’s get in the bath.”

Oswald guides Ed to the tub, turning the water off just in time, and eases him into the tub. Edward moves easily with him, pliable under his hands. When Oswald climbs in after him, the water spills a little over the edge of the tub, and Oswald grimaces slightly but ignores it. The water’s soothing, warm, and Ed already appears to be calming down a little, dropping back into the drowsy state he was in before. Oswald is curious, hopelessly curious, but he doesn’t want to press Ed and distress him further.

Facing him in the tub, Oswald strokes his hand over Ed’s back, a broad sweeping pass. “I want you to know that you don’t need to hide from me. Any part of you, whether good or bad. I -- I _know_ you, Ed--” Oswald bites his tongue. Damn. “I mean I--”

Ed’s head thunks down onto his shoulder, arms tightening briefly around Oswald’s back before letting go. “Okay,” he says, leaning his head back once again.

Leaning him back against the tub wall, Oswald smiles at him, a little shakily. “Ed,” Oswald says softly, stroking a hand through Ed’s hair as gently as he can. “You are incredibly brilliant. I’m not sure I told you that.”

“You did,” Ed mutters. He allows his head to loll back against the edge of the tub, and Oswald untangles his hand from his hair quickly lest it get caught.

“I’ve never met another mind like yours,” Oswald tells him. Ed blinks his eyes drowsily, focusing them on Oswald after a little while. “Truly, Ed.”

Ed stares at him, uncertainly, and Oswald sighs.

It's strangely easy to think of grabbing the washcloth and wetting it, bringing it to Ed's shoulders and stroking, gently, soothingly. He's never done this for anyone before, but he can recall his mother's caring attentions and it's not difficult to think of doing this for Ed. Out of everyone he's ever known, it _would_ be Ed.

Ed sighs and settles down against the side of the tub, and Oswald continues his gentle ministrations, the heat of the water and the quiet of the apartment lending a serene air to their silence.

Absently, Oswald finds himself humming, an old lullaby of his mother's, a familiar, comforting tune. Ed blinks his eyes open and stares at him, expression intent; Oswald averts his eyes but continues humming. His eyes catch on Ed's hand, slung over the edge of the tub, his pianist's fingers splaying and gently tapping as if attempting accompaniment.

Every time Oswald thinks he's fallen as far as he can, he's proven wrong.

He lets go of the washcloth, letting it drift away in the water, and brings his hand up to Ed's cheek. Ed watches him, eyes attentive, as Oswald leans in and presses his lips to Ed's. Ed's hand comes to his wrist, gripping him not as frantically as earlier, his mouth opening against Oswald’s lips. Oswald shifts forward, the bath water lapping against them in waves, and rises up onto his knees.

In the water, he has a much better range of movement, and it feels freeing. He can hold his weight on his legs much longer. If only he could manage the plunge into cold water for recreational purposes -- as it is, baths are the only times he feels like his old self again.

When his knee slots in place between Ed’s, he feels Ed pressing against him, already hard again. Oswald feels a smirk playing at his lips, but when he opens his eyes to look at Ed, the expression on his face is still vulnerable and instead of saying something he leans over Ed, his bandaged hand coming to rest on Ed’s damp shoulder.

Oswald presses his lips to Ed’s mouth again, tasting the easy warmth and familiarity of his reciprocating kiss. Ed’s grip on his hand is frustrating, though, as his other hand is still bandaged and mostly useless. Oswald huffs against Ed’s lips and tugs on his hand; Ed lets go, as if startled. “It’s all right,” Oswald murmurs against his lips. “I just want…”

Instead of explaining himself he drops his hand to Ed’s chest, stroking his skin where the water laps and then underneath, trailing his hand down Ed’s chest and abs and resting his fingers against the V of his hips.

His arousal is rising from the nest of dark hair, bright pink and temptingly hard. Oswald feels the intent interest from earlier returning: he wants to watch Ed come, helpless underneath his hand and totally devoted to him.

With Ed still so unsteady from earlier, now is not the time for toying or denial; it’s the time for slow, easy acceptance -- his fingers curling around Ed’s erection and stroking him firmly, the silky bath water easing his way. Ed half sighs, half whines, moving restlessly in place and rising to Oswald’s strokes, hips chasing the tempting movement.

Oswald bites his tongue, watching Ed arch up under his hand, eyes softly unfocused. He's hot in Oswald’s hand, bath water still warm, and everything has a hazy sort of feel.

Ed spreads his legs more fully, drawing them up against the sides of the tub, and Oswald slides between them, enjoying the surrounding feeling of Ed's thighs bracketing him. His bandaged hand flexes, eagerly, where it's still resting on Ed's shoulder, and he's struck with irritation that he can't get it wet -- he's dying to draw his fingers over Ed's entrance and press inside him slowly, with him still stretched from before and relaxed from the bath.

It proves too tempting a prospect and Oswald releases Ed's arousal, despite his quiet little protest, and drags the fingers of his hand down to Ed's entrance. His whine cuts off as quickly as it started, and Oswald presses his way inside, slowly and easily as he imagined, Ed leaning back against the wall of the tub and shutting his eyes, his mouth dropping open.

Oswald kisses his open mouth, delving inside with his tongue and capturing Ed's taste; Ed brings his hand up to Oswald’s neck, resting against the pulse there.

Ed begins to move under Oswald's hands, fucking himself a little, and Oswald murmurs: “You can touch yourself,” at his look of desperate frustration.

He drops a hand to his cock without further prompting, breath thready and eager, back bending like a bow under the assault of pleasure. His hand on his cock moves in time to Oswald's fingers in him, and he lets out little rasping breaths as Oswald captures his lips again.

When he comes, he sobs, shaking under Oswald’s hands, and Oswald opens his eyes to see the look of pained pleasure on his face, feeling him clamp down on Oswald’s fingers.

Oswald slips his fingers out, careful not to move too quickly, and brings his hand to rest on Ed’s waist.

And then Ed leans against him heavily, sleepily clumsy, and Oswald desperately doesn’t want to disturb him. But the water is turning cool and Oswald’s fingers are wrinkling. With regret, Oswald sighs and wraps his arm around Ed’s shoulders to brace him.

“Come on, Ed,” Oswald ushers softly. “Let’s get to bed.”

~

Oswald doesn’t fall asleep, but Ed does. Several hours pass that way, Oswald lying on his back in Ed’s bed, Ed curled into his side with his head resting on Oswald’s sternum. It’s still what Oswald would normally consider “late afternoon” -- in the very late p.m. -- and he’s not feeling tired yet. He actually feels _energized_.

His mind flits over the events of the evening, exhilarated and incredulous alike. He feels absolutely _stupid_ with emotion, the way he had when he’d first realized his love for Ed. Having ignored it for so long, it crashes over him in waves, flooding his heart and his senses. And this time, there’s a strange fearlessness to his feelings: he’s _already_ experienced the worst Ed has to offer in exchange for his love. No matter what may happen, he knows he can and will survive it.

Not that he’s about to become _careless_. There are still very real threats all around them.

Ed seems to trust him, in some measure at least. In the bathroom, the way he’d leaned in to Oswald’s support -- despite the disadvantage it would put Oswald at, he _hopes_ Ed knows he would never use the knowledge against him. He doesn’t want Ed to fear him.

Oh -- how odd. He’s just realized the reason the bathroom looked so strange: there were no mirrors.

There’s a little movement in his arms and Oswald looks down at the crown of Ed’s head as he stirs, wakening. He tenses against Oswald, and Oswald bites his lip, heart in his throat; but then Ed tilts his head up to meet Oswald’s eyes and smiles, relaxing back into his embrace.

The smile Oswald gives him back is aching, adoring. “Good morning. Or night.”

Ed smirks. His eyes look bright, clear, in a way they haven’t since… since before they began the murder. Oswald feels his stomach drop, sudden nervousness fizzing in the back of his mind. He’s heard of this before, this altered state of consciousness: Ed’s overwhelmed expressions, lowered vocabulary range, emotional vulnerability and susceptibility to suggestion -- Oswald blinks rapidly, nervously, and asks: “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Ed says, and tilts his face down to hide his expression. But there’s a positive lilt to his tone: Oswald guesses that he’s hiding his face from embarrassment rather than upset. A wave of relief crashes over him as he brings his hand to Ed’s hair and strokes his fingers through it. Ed hums into his abdomen, bringing an arm to wrap around Oswald’s waist.

He wants to ask more but he’s afraid of embarrassing Ed -- he’s not sure how well he’ll respond, and he certainly doesn’t want to upset him after that ordeal. So he settles on stroking his hand through Ed’s hair, enjoying the way the curling strands cling to his fingers.

After a length, Ed speaks. “Do you…” Ed trails off, looking up at Oswald. He reaches up suddenly and brings his palm to Oswald’s cheek, cupping his face. “Do you need to go back?”

Oswald blinks; he’s nearly forgotten. He lowers his gaze to Ed’s jawline. “No, actually,” he says, as casually as he can manage. “Cat’s covering.”

“Oh,” Ed says quietly, stroking Oswald’s face. “Are you sure?”

Oswald closes his eyes, feeling chagrin rush over him. He’s reminded of the way that Ed -- that _everyone_ \-- seems to think he’s gone soft, out of practice. Is that _really_ the state of his reputation? It certainly seems so, and he can trust Cat in that regard better than any of his other informants.

“I’ve…” Oswald begins, before halting. Should he really explain all this to Ed? It’s not exactly pertinent to their physical relationship.

But Ed will understand, won’t he? In a way neither Ivy nor Cat will. And Oswald has no one else to tell.

“It’s come to my attention that I’ve been… spending most of my time inside the Iceberg, and not… living up to my reputation. And I would prefer to rectify that.”

Ed blinks, his fingers still stroking Oswald’s cheek. “By..?”

“I’ll start with leaving the Iceberg more frequently, for one,” Oswald says, injecting some humor into his tone.

Ed’s lips quirk into a smile.

Oswald smiles back. “Thank you, by the way, for the … gift. It _had_ been too long.”

Ed’s smile breaks into a toothy grin, and a chuckle escapes him. “That’s always--” he breaks off abruptly, brow furrowing, and then he starts again: “I enjoyed it too.”

Oswald smiles down at Ed, a little ruefully. He’s quite sure Ed had been about to mention the _last_ time they’d done this together. He tugs on Ed’s hair, just slightly, comfortingly, and Ed brings his hand back down to rest on Oswald’s chest. They settle back into silence, cuddled together. With a sheepish smile Oswald thinks back to their first few times, and how determined he’d been to escape. It would probably be healthier for him in the long run; but Ed is, and always has been, far too tempting.

Still, as the room sinks back into drowsy contentment, Oswald finds his mind returning to worry at the dilemma he can’t escape: Ivy.

With every day that passes, the chances of Jim deciding to tell her increase. But once Jim does, he _will_ lose his leverage. The only thing staying Jim’s hand is the assumption that Oswald will eventually decide the exchange is worth it: Ed’s freedom for Ivy’s continued affection.

Jim obviously expects that Oswald and Ed’s contentious relationship will eventually explode once again: the last time they _weren’t_ at odds, Oswald had still been mayor. Jim must believe that all of their old issues will eventually come to light, driving the wedge between them even deeper. And he’s not foolish to believe that, is he?

What’s holding them together, now? Mutual lust and a few shaky rules? Oswald’s fingers tighten in Ed’s hair, and he shifts, uncomfortably; Oswald relaxes his grip with effort.

This “alliance” is built on shifting sands.

But even if he _does_ give the information to Jim, Jim will then know where to put pressure any time he wants something in the future. If Oswald acknowledges the worth of the knowledge, he will never again be free of catering to Jim’s whims.

Unacceptable.

Even disregarding the cost of his and Ed’s … arrangement, and Ed’s freedom, the outcome is inadmissible. But Jim _will_ tell Ivy if it becomes clear Oswald won’t capitulate.

He either has to … predispose her to disbelieve Jim, or ...

...tell her.

He grimaces.

Exasperated with his thoughts, Oswald sighs and presses his head back into the pillow, trying to drive out the increasingly pessimistic predictions.

Ed makes a soft noise, and then whispers: “Oswald, are you… annoyed with me?”

Startled, Oswald shifts up onto one elbow, staring down at Ed’s head, his hair obscuring his expression. “What? No. Why?”

Ed looks up, rising onto his elbows and dislodging Oswald’s hand from his head. Ed reaches up with one hand and strokes his thumb across Oswald’s lower lip. Oswald’s tongue darts out to taste him, salty and familiar. “You seem distant,” Ed says finally.

“I apologize,” Oswald says hastily; the last thing he wants to do is offend Ed. “It’s true I’m preoccupied. It’s not your fault.”

Ed blinks, gazing at Oswald myopically. “Is it because of Jim..?”

Oswald turns his gaze to the ceiling, shifting on his elbow. “In a manner of speaking,” he says finally, reluctantly. Telling Ed is a bad idea. It’s very…

But who else would be able to advise him? Who else would not use the information? And who else knows Jim as well as he does?

Oswald bites his lip.

“Oswald?” Ed asks again, and Oswald shuts his eyes and drops himself back onto the mattress. He lets out a breath, slowly, steadily, as Ed waits in silence.

Oswald’s eyes flicker back open, staring up at the ceiling. “Do you remember the Wayne murder?” he asks, before he can think about it any further.

He can feel Ed’s eyes on him, curious and assessing. “Yes,” he says after a protracted pause, as if he had forgotten a question had been asked.

“The man Jim and Bullock killed wasn’t the murderer. Orders came from… looking back, I suppose it must have been the Court of Owls, but it came to Bullock, and Bullock passed it on to Fish. And Fish had me take care of it.”

“Take care of..?”

“Plant false evidence,” Oswald explains. He takes a deep breath, and it rattles in his lungs. He could stop now. He _should_ stop now.

“Oswald,” Ed says, “whatever it is--”

“The man’s name was Mario Pepper,” Oswald blurts, interrupting him. “He was Ivy’s father.” His heart is racing in his chest - it was harder to say aloud than he would have ever believed.

Ed says nothing.

“I didn’t know at the time, of course,” Oswald continues, voice raw and scratchy. “I didn’t even know he had any children.” He smiles, bitterly. “But I wouldn’t have cared.

“Jim is… one of the few who knows the whole story. He reminded me that it’s _my_ fault she’s orphaned. She doesn’t know. And I think he may…” Oswald swallows, harshly.

“He’s threatened to tell her,” he says finally, shutting his eyes against the outside world. He can’t tell Ed _why_ Jim might tell her; if he knows Oswald is risking his relationship with Ivy for Ed’s safety, he… he’ll know. Everything.

Ed is silent, and Oswald sucks in a nervous, hitching breath. He still can’t bear to look at him. He shouldn’t have told him anything. He’s an _idiot_.

The silence is interminable. Oswald begins to wonder, miserably, if he should just get up and leave before Ed kicks him out, but he’s still caged underneath Ed, one of his arms on either side of Oswald’s torso.

“You need to tell her,” Ed says finally, voice firm. “She needs to hear it from you.”

Ed’s right. Of course he’s right. But… “What if she doesn’t forgive me?” Oswald asks, voice shaky. “What if she decides she hates me?”

The mattress shifts as Ed moves, and Oswald blinks open his eyes to see Ed’s face above his, gaze intent. “Oswald. She _will_ hate you if she hears it from Jim first.”

Oswald shuts his eyes, and an unexpected tear escapes to slide down the side of his face, leaving a stinging trail in its wake. “But--”

“She _will_ ,” Ed says, with conviction. “But if you tell her yourself, she may forgive you.”

Oswald feels a weird sense of … it’s almost déjà vu, but _not_. An odd sense of familiarity.

_Oh._

He remembers Ed’s betrayal (and his own): the way he’d drawn Oswald out, getting him to reveal his guilt before Oswald even considered Ed suspected him. This situation, Oswald’s wrongdoing, someone else holding the knowledge -- it mirrors the destruction of their friendship exactly. Oswald’s cheeks flush, frustration and self-pity welling up inside him. Surely Ed is thinking of that now. Why is Oswald such a _fool_? Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth _shut_?

“You need to tell her yourself,” Ed repeats, his breath ghosting against Oswald’s face. “But Oswald…”

With a pang, Oswald remembers just how _content_ they were mere minutes ago. He feels Ed’s hand on his face, thumbs stroking over his eyelids. “Look at me,” Ed says, voice frustrated, and with a grimace Oswald blinks his eyes open, another tear escaping to fall to the mattress underneath him.

Ed is staring down at him intently, but not filled with hate like Oswald expected. His heart leaps, daring to hope; and Oswald suppresses it as best he can. “Yes?” he asks, and Ed’s eyes dart down to his lips.

“Oswald…” Ed breathes, voice softer than before. He leans down and presses his lips to Oswald’s, and a whimper escapes the shorter man, his arms wrapping around Ed’s back on impulse.

Ed’s kiss turns heated almost immediately, and Oswald relaxes underneath Ed, revelling in the feel of Ed’s warm body pressed against him. Ed pulls away then, quickly, and stares into Oswald’s eyes. “Jim killed him,” Ed says fervently, conviction heating his words. “ _He_ was the one who killed Ivy’s father. Not _you_ , Oswald.” Ed kisses him fiercely, lips consuming, teeth sharp and hungry. “Jim can’t hold his own guilt and he pushes it onto you. And me. It’s not _fair_. It’s not _right_. Don’t listen to him.”

This is more than he dared hope for, and his heart is bursting in his chest. “Ed,” he gasps against Ed’s devouring mouth. “Ed.”

“You’re a demon,” Ed says, and it’s neither a compliment nor an insult, “Oswald, but you are… _sentimental_. I know how much she means to you.”

Oswald shuts his eyes, undefinable emotion scoring through him: that’s the closest acknowledgement Ed has ever given him of the depth of his feelings. Before, it had always been… even when he’d acknowledged Oswald’s _love_ , he’d characterized it as petty, jealous, selfish. This feels like a balm, soothing over the hurt that still burns deep in his heart. He clings to Ed, grip firm and yet desperate, his fingers digging into Ed’s shoulder.

Ed leans his head down, pressing his lips against Oswald’s cheek. “I want to be inside you,” Ed murmurs into his ear. “I _need_ …”

“Yes,” Oswald agrees. He spreads his legs, giving Ed room to settle between his thighs, body warm and cock already hardening against Oswald.

Ed kisses his neck, and shifts his weight a little, reaching over Oswald to the nightstand drawer beside the bed. Oswald hears clattering as he searches around and, guessing he’s looking for lube, hooks one of his legs around Ed’s waist.

It takes Ed a few moments but then his fingers are pressing against Oswald’s opening, trembling and too cold for comfort. But Oswald sighs and kisses Ed’s throat, and Ed gives a shuddering little groan in response.

He feels the stretch more, this time; Ed’s not as careful as he was before, rushing through preparing him a little. But it feels good all the same, Ed’s excitement and impatience and Oswald’s own growing arousal giving their movements fervor as they touch each other, Ed’s fingers in Oswald and Oswald’s hands gripping Ed’s back.

Finally, he nips Ed’s chin and says, “Ready,” and Ed immediately pulls his fingers out, too quickly. Oswald hisses in discomfort and Ed presses ardent kisses to his face as if in apology, even as he lines himself up against Oswald’s opening. Oswald laughs a little, exuberantly, and grips Ed’s face between his hands, planting an open-mouthed kiss against his lips. Ed moans as Oswald presses his tongue in Ed’s mouth, searching for bliss.

Ed pulls away from the kiss as he thrusts into him, and the astonished expression on his face feels like acceptance, his arms bracketing Oswald feeling like belonging. Oswald slings one arm around Ed's neck, lifting his torso up off the bed and pressing himself closer to Ed. He presses himself up until he can feel his cock against Ed’s stomach, and Ed shudders above him before easing down on Oswald, pushing him back against the mattress.

Oswald loves Ed’s enthusiasm and the overwhelmed look on his face as he thrusts into Oswald. Ed reaches out with one hand to grip Oswald’s thigh, bringing it up against his waist. Oswald shudders against the mattress, as the new angle presses Ed against his prostate, sending mindless pleasure jolting through him. His nails dig into Ed’s skin.

Ed comes when he does, crying out as Oswald bites his collarbone, filling Oswald up even as Oswald paints his stomach white with come.

They fall down to the mattress, sharing gasping pants. Ed’s presses his face next to Oswald’s, their cheeks flushed and burning, the sound and feel of Ed’s breaths against his chest and in his ear all the music Oswald needs to send him into a calming doze.

~

Ivy is waiting for him when he returns to the Iceberg, not too long after dawn has gripped the horizon.

“Ozzie!” she greets. Fern is sprawled onto the bar counter, and Ivy’s perched on one of the stools. “Did you have fun?”

“I did,” Oswald says. He looks over her, intently, as if he hasn’t seen her for a while: takes note of her hair, loose around her shoulders, bright red in the relative darkness of the club. Her clothes, _very_ green, quite as bad as Ed in their own respect. The fond smile on her face, as familiar as his own face in the mirror, but far more cherished.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He has to do it now, strengthened by Ed’s resolve, or he never will.

“We need to talk,” Oswald says, firmly. He manages to hide the shake in his voice, but he can’t quite meet her eyes.

“Is it about the Riddler?” she asks, too knowingly, and Oswald blushes involuntarily.

“No,” he says firmly, “I… wish it was. This won’t be easy to hear, Ivy.”

Her face pales, and she slides off the barstool and onto her feet. “Oh… are you okay? Is something wrong?” She takes a few steps toward Oswald as she speaks, and Oswald quickly holds up a hand to halt her.

“Ivy… I’m -- I apologize, I’m going about this all wrong. No one is in danger. It’s nothing like that.” Oswald takes another deep breath, feeling almost lightheaded. “Go ahead and sit down. I’ll join you.”

She sinks back onto the barstool, hesitantly, and Oswald determinedly walks forward to take a seat beside her. Fern rolls onto her back, revealing her soft belly, and for once Ivy doesn’t immediately try to pet it.

Oswald debates getting a whiskey, morosely, but decides against it. He needs to word this very deliberately, and he has a feeling the drink will prove more disastrous than helpful.

“It’s about what Jim said,” Oswald begins. “He… reminded me of something from my past, something I ought to have told you long ago.”

Ivy watches him, expression wary.

“You know I used to work for Fish Mooney,” Oswald says. “And she had a longstanding arrangement with Harvey Bullock, who was then Jim’s partner at the GCPD.”

“He retired, didn’t he?” Ivy asks, voice too-cheerful.

She’s so _optimistic_. He’s always admired that about her. Well -- perhaps not _always_ , but it had grown on him. “Yes, he did,” Oswald says. “I’m -- I’m trying to give you context for what I’m about to tell you.

“I was Fish’s umbrella boy, errand boy; she would send me to complete tasks all throughout the city. And one time -- this was on Harvey Bullock’s instruction -- she had me plant f--” his voice fails him, and he swallows, fiercely. She’s watching him with luminous eyes, her expression almost fearful. He’s not used to that look on her; it’s _wrong_. “--plant false evidence,” he forces out, “on someone. I -- I was able to put it together after the news came out.” Oswald shuts his eyes. This is it.

“Your father was innocent, Ivy.”

The room is silent.

He hears a quiet breath.

“I told them,” Ivy says, voice faint.

“I’m so sorry,” Oswald tells her, opening his eyes. She’s staring down at the bar counter, staggered, eyes wide and teary. “I never knew -- but I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending I would have--” he cuts himself off; he shouldn’t dig the knife _deeper_. “Ivy, had I known then what you would come to mean to me--”

“Stop,” she says, voice distant. “Just… let me…”

He stops talking, eyes fixed on her, fear holding him captive. _This is necessary_ , he reminds himself, firmly, _she’d have found out eventually_. He’s not sure how much time passes like that; Ivy staring unseeingly, his eyes on her.

“Jim knew?” she asks after a length.

“Not beforehand,” Oswald tells her. “I think he put it together afterward, like I did.”

She nods, once. Then she turns to him, eyes fierce and defensive and sad. “He threatened to tell me, didn’t he?”

Oswald feels an incongruous pride; she’s so bright, and she’s learned so much from him. “He did. I wasn’t sure… how to… You deserved to know, but not from Jim, and not in the context of a battle between him and myself.”

“I guess I should be grateful,” she says, bitterly.

“Ivy--” Oswald leans forward, but catches himself before he automatically puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I am so sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I know how hard it is -- I don’t expect your forgiveness--”

“Oh, Pengy,” Ivy interrupts, eyes sorrowful. “Of course I forgive you. You’re my family. You forgive family.”

Oswald’s mouth drops open, and he can feel tears, hot and sudden, in his eyes. “Ivy…”

“I’m upset,” she says. “I need to talk to someone else about it. I can’t -- I can’t talk about this with you. But I forgive you.”

Tears are falling from Oswald’s eyes and he lurches forward to wrap Ivy in his arms. She comes willingly, and he feels her arms circling him. They don’t usually hug; Oswald has never been overly comfortable with touch, but he’s so grateful, now, and her embrace feels like home.

“You mean so much to me,” Oswald chokes out, through tears. “I am sorry for everything I’ve done to hurt you.”

Ivy tucks her face into the crook of Oswald’s neck, and he can feel her shoulders shake as she suppresses her own sobs. “You gave me a home,” she tells him, brokenly. “Nothing means more to me than that.”

He blinks fiercely, driving the tears from his eyes. “Thank you, Ivy. Thank you so much.”


	8. That's Not It At All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re back, baby!!! :D
> 
> Timeskip again. :) You can assume it’s been a week or two, with Os & Ed meeting up every few days or so.
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience, everyone, and enjoy!!  
> ~R

_What is the Riddler’s plan?_

_We are all aware of the increased graffiti featuring the familiar green mark of one of Gotham’s most theatrical villains, but what does it all mean? Our own Valerie Vale examines the evidence and comes to a shocking conclusion!_

Oswald smiles fondly to himself as he skims the article: it’s the usual baseless speculation, but charming nonetheless. Having a familiarity with the way Ed works and his recent plans renders the conjecture laughably inaccurate to Oswald, but he still folds the article and adds it to the growing pile in his nightstand drawer.

“Come on, Fern,” he ushers, rising to his feet finally. “We’re going on a walk today.”

She meows up at him. He smiles at her, and scoops her into his arms.

~

The night air is cool, and with Fern perched on his left shoulder, Oswald strikes off. He knows where he’s going, and knows exactly what he’s going to do once he arrives. There’s a pistol in his pocket, a weaponized umbrella cane in his hand, and a small but occasionally violent cat on his shoulder.

He reaches up to stroke her fur, soothingly, as they walk along; they draw some lingering looks but he’s well-known enough to deter unwanted altercations. And a man with a cat on his shoulder is far from the strangest thing to walk the streets of Gotham.

Slowly, the environment shifts: the pavement becomes worn and cracked, the town cars and taxis give way to rusted twenty-year-old models and filthier taxis. Oswald breathes in deeply, the smell of rotten fish and exhaust somehow reassuring in its familiarity, despite the fact that it does - undeniably - smell disgusting. He’d grown up around smells like this; done his earliest crimes in a part of town not too far from here. It’ll always be the place he came from.

And look at him now: multi-millionaire and club proprietor. And cat owner.

Also a man going through something not unlike a midlife crisis, he supposes. Well -- there’s worse things he could have done in the wake of a midlife crisis. Single-handedly destroy the economy of Gotham, for one. Buy a painfully ostentatious sports car, for another.

Having increasingly emotional sex with an old friend and ally and resuming the kind of low-level murder and enforcement he’d done in the past aren’t so bad, comparatively.

He arrives at the warehouse in question. The door is already ajar, and a smirk curls his lips at the sight as he pushes it open the rest of the way with a suspicious _creak_.

“You better have my money, already.”

Oswald snorts quietly. He feels Fern’s claws flex into his shoulder, and strokes her again, softly, before making his way into the warehouse proper.

“Did you hear me? I said you _better_ \--” the man finally turns to face him, and the expression of shock on his face sends a happy little thrill curling in Oswald’s gut. “It’s _you_!” the man gasps, voice aghast.

Oswald dips his head in amused acknowledgement. “It’s me.”

“B-but you don’t--!”

“Don’t show up in person?” Oswald finishes for him, voice sinuous and dark. He takes a few steps forward, Fern digging her claws into his shoulder to maintain her balance with his uneven step. He angles his cane so that it clacks ominously against the cement warehouse flooring. “Don’t bother with the little people, like you?” His pistol is burning a hole in his pocket. “Don’t know who _you_ are, Sims?”

He hisses in a sharp breath and takes a step back as Oswald continues to advance. There is a back door to the warehouse; Oswald begins walking diagonally toward it, herding Sims toward the darkly-lit corner; even the windows there are boarded up.

“I’ve found my patience very _tried_ , recently,” Oswald continues blithely. “So much so that I’m thinking of giving the practice up altogether. What do you say?”

“Look, I didn’t mean--” Sims says, voice shaking.

“Save it,” Oswald tells him.

“No, look, I--I promise I can be useful!”

A familiar chuckle echoes through the warehouse, and Sims freezes his movement, his head darting around to futilely search for the source. Oswald smiles blithely.

“Ed,” Oswald calls, not bothering to look behind him. “Nice to see you.”

“You haven’t seen me yet.”

Oswald hums and turns nonchalantly on his heel, eyes seeking out that familiar figure. Ed chooses that moment to step out of the shadows, wearing his usual bright green attire and this time with his question mark staff slung over his shoulder. He looks good, if a bit too stylized, and Oswald smirks at his timely appearance.

“Now I have -- and what a welcome sight,” Oswald says.

When Ed finally reaches him, he leans down and kisses Oswald, strangely sweetly. Oswald tries to be surprised, but instead he feels warm and content -- the sight of Ed is always a welcome one, these days, and he cannot manage to convince himself otherwise.

Fern shifts on Oswald’s shoulder, and Ed jerks a little before pulling out of the kiss briefly. Oswald sees Fern digging her claws into the fabric of Ed’s shoulder, clinging to his suit jacket while still sitting on Oswald’s. Oswald suppresses a smirk, his eyes sliding up to meet Ed’s gaze.

Ed snorts as Oswald reaches up to unlatch her claws.

“What can one not keep, two hold, and three destroy?” Ed asks him as he works, and Oswald smiles: he recognizes that one.

“That’s a secret, Ed,” Oswald says coyly.

“Two can hold it,” Ed says back, equally coy.

“But not three,” Oswald agrees, mock-disappointed. “Too bad for Sims, here.”

Oswald makes a half-turn toward the unfortunate man just as he gets Fern to release Ed’s shoulder. Sims has been shifting toward the wall, trying to skirt around them and escape, but not quickly enough. “Oh Sims, you’re not leaving, are you?” Oswald asks cheerfully. “We haven’t even had a chance to get properly acquainted.”

Sims halts like a rabbit in headlights, staring at the two of them. It’s probably a bewildering sight, Oswald muses a little disdainfully.

“May I join you?” Ed asks, jauntily, and Oswald smiles at him.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

~

Night has fallen completely by the time they’re on their way back, Oswald three bullets lighter with a key in his pocket, Ed with a familiar ecstatic grin on his face. His teeth gleam, bright white in the streetlights, and Oswald feels hungry affection in his chest - he doesn’t want this evening to end. Of course, the club will have opened by now, but Oswald is slowly cultivating the club’s staff to survive without him.

But: “Tonight’s the night,” Ed tells him.

“Oh?” Oswald asks.

“Everything’s set up,” Ed tells him. “I’m springing the trap on Gordon and the others tonight.”

“Ah,” Oswald says, trying not to feel disappointed. “Good luck, then. Be sure to tell me how it goes.”

“All things successful, you’ll read about it in the newspaper tomorrow or the next day,” Ed says. “But I’ll tell you all the details. In the meantime--” He leans in abruptly, seizing Oswald by his free shoulder and pulling him into a kiss. Ed’s mouth is hungry, possessive, and he nips Oswald’s lip with his teeth, rather uncharacteristically. Grateful for the cover of darkness over the deserted street, Oswald moans softly, his tongue stroking against Ed’s.

“Have a good night, Oswald,” Edward tells him when the kiss finally ends. “Thank you for the good luck kiss.”

“Is _that_ what that was?” Oswald asks him. Edward only smirks and turns away to disappear into the night. Oswald watches him until he’s gone from sight, then pats Fern gently and continues on his walk home.

~

“You’re looking cheerful.”

“Cat,” Oswald greets. She’s leaning against the bar counter, nursing a White Russian. Oswald smiles at her, reaching up to pluck a reluctant Fern from his shoulder. She digs her claws into the fabric of his suit and he gives up, lest he damage the material.

Cat’s right. He feels energetic, enlivened by his walk with Ed, freer than he’s felt in a while. He hadn’t realized how much he _missed_ feeling free to go where he wished, when he wished. “And how are you this evening?” he asks, signalling the bartender for a drink.

“Fine. But I did want to let you know--” she leans in conspiratorially. Oswald’s eyes dart around, checking, even as he automatically leans in toward her. “He’s drawing more attention. Your boytoy.”

Oswald rears back, cheeks flushing. “ _Really_ , Cat,” he snaps, looking over at the bartender and gesturing a little more urgently.

“Oh, should I call him your boy _friend_?”

“Cat,” Oswald says, voice warning. The bartender sets a glass of red wine in front of him, and feeling the shifting weight on his shoulder, Oswald reaches up to grab Fern by the scruff of her neck. “Take it away!” he snaps at the bartender, who complies with bewildered haste. Oswald glares after him.

“Come on, he’s here _all the time_. He’s basically your boyfriend.”

Oswald clenches his hands into fists, real anger lancing through him. “I didn’t realize proximity was the only prerequisite to a romantic relationship,” Oswald snaps, turning abruptly to meet her eyes. “I’ll make a note of that.”

Cat holds up her hands. “It’s a _joke_ , birdbrain.”

“Not a very funny one,” Oswald snaps. “You shouldn’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

Cat makes a face at him. “Seriously, though, I don’t know what bee’s buzzing in the Joker’s bonnet, but he has a major problem with the Riddler. And I’m pretty sure they were working together. You sure you don’t know what it’s about?”

Oswald feels a flicker of unease. “We haven’t talked about it,” he says curtly.

Cat smirks. “Too busy doing _other things_?”

A hot-cold rush passes over him, and he stares at her with wide eyes. “ _What_?” he snaps, too-loudly; he can sense eyes on them now.

“ _Joking_ ,” Cat hisses. “Seriously, Ozzie, calm down.”

“The _last_ thing I need are rumors about that flying around,” Oswald recovers, speaking as quietly and persuasively as he can manage. “I don’t want to be put in an awkward position by the increasing number of enemies he’s acquiring. So _please_ , keep your jokes slightly less _scandalous_ in nature.”

“Scandalous,” Cat says humorously. “You think _that’s_ scandalous? I’ve got stories that could curl your hair -- so I probably shouldn’t tell you,” she adds, reaching out to pat his coiffed hair. He flinches under her hand, annoyed. “But hey, if you don’t want people to think you’re fucking, I’ve got a great solution.”

“Wh-- we’re _not_ ,” Oswald hisses, “so I shouldn’t need to do _anything_ , because, as I said, _we’re not_.”

Cat looks him in the eye, firmly. “Whether you are or not, people are gonna think you are, what with all the time you’re suddenly spending together.”

“So what’s your solution?” Oswald demands.

“Derek’s here,” she says casually, and takes a large sip of her drink.

Oswald splutters for a moment, before recovering and snapping: “Why do you and Ivy keep trying to foist me off onto this man? I’m getting out, I’m doing things, so why is this necessary?”

“Oh, look,” she says, eyes focused over his shoulder. “There he is!”

Oswald whirls around, raising a hand to make sure Fern doesn’t fall, and sure enough, the vaguely familiar man is standing a few yards away, making his way toward them. He turns back to Cat briefly to give her an exasperated look before turning fully around to face Derek just as he steps within comfortable conversing distance.

“Good evening,” Oswald says, determined to take charge of the exchange. “Good to see you, Derek.”

“Lovely to see you, too,” Derek says.

He takes another step closer and Oswald feels his shoulders rise automatically, nervously. Derek reaches out with a tentative hand toward Fern, who sniffs his fingers curiously.

“What a sweet cat,” Derek says, and Oswald smiles at him, somewhat strained.

“Thank you,” Oswald says. “I wish we could talk longer but I have a few things I really need to go over with Cat, here, so if you’ll excuse us--”

“Oswald, I can wait,” Cat says pointedly.

“I can’t,” Oswald says. “So unfortunately, Derek, we will have to resume this another time.”

“All right,” Derek says easily, taking a step back. Oswald feels himself relax automatically, and wonders at the sensation -- is he _making_ himself uncomfortable around Derek, or is there something about him? -- even as he smiles curtly.

“Have a wonderful evening, Derek,” Oswald says decisively, and turns on his heel toward his office, not waiting for Cat to follow.

~

She shuts the door behind her as she enters, and he hears the quiet click of the lock.

“Warn me, next time,” he says sourly, finally managing to pry Fern from his shoulder and set her down on his desk.

“I did,” Cat tells him. He gives her an aggrieved look. “Penguin,” Cat says, taking a step forward. “I’m trying to look out for you. All Ivy wants is for you to be happy, and if the Riddler’s _not_ your boyfriend then what the hell are you doing getting googly-eyed around him and spending all your free time with him?”

“Have you considered we might be _friends_?” Oswald asks bitingly, unthinkingly.

Cat’s face transforms into an expression uncannily like pity, and Oswald takes an instinctive step away from her, fixing his eyes on the far wall.

“Oh, Oswald,” Cat says, sounding old far beyond her years, “don’t lie to yourself. There’s only so long that will last, and then where will you -- where will we _all_ be?”

Oswald clenches and unclenches his hands, fighting off the urge to lash out. He _wants_ to punish her for pointing out what he _knows_ is true -- but strangely, he thinks she might actually be trying to help him. If only for Ivy’s sake, he thinks to himself, inhaling sharply.

“No matter what happens,” he says quietly, deliberately, “I won’t let it backfire onto Ivy, Cat, you have my word.”

“I know _that_ ,” Cat says, irritated. “Do you think I’m stupid? But what about _yourself_ , you dummy?”

“I’ll be fine,” he tells her, and he almost believes it.

“Yeah, sure,” Cat says. She shakes her head, sharply. “You moron, I _know_ you’re fucking him because one of my people caught you making out - what, an hour ago? - on the street. You’re really _bad_ at keeping secrets, birdbrain, and the more you guys try to hide it, the more likely someone will try to use it against you.”

“Cat--”

“I know he probably wants it quiet, or whatever--”

“We’re not _dating_ ,” Oswald says helplessly, and shuts his mouth, unable to continue.

He doesn’t need to; Cat’s face is knowing and sympathetic. “Ozzie. You need to _make_ him make a decision. Either he’s your boyfriend or he’s not.” Oswald raises his hand, ready to protest, and she interrupts him. “Go on _one_ date with Derek, and see if he makes a move then. If not, well, I hear Derek is a really cool guy.”

It’s _agonizing_ to hear it in such simplistic terms.

They’ve known each other for so long, and been so much to each other -- friends, enemies, lovers -- and now they are too tangled up in each other to ever be truly apart.

But even _if_ Ed were suddenly to announce a desire to date him…

Would Oswald even be able to _believe_ him?

After all, the _last_ time he thought Ed had meant it, Ed had been tricking him into revealing his feelings before orchestrating his downfall. Just because Ed is enjoying -- benefiting from -- their interactions _now_ hardly holds bearing for the future.

“Cat,” Oswald bites out, finally, “it’s not as straightforward as you believe it to be.”

“Maybe not,” Cat says. “But you have to admit, my idea is better than yours.”

“That’s debatable,” Oswald says, but he can feel himself calming, the fact that Cat is willing to be reasonable settling him. “I’ll consider it,” he tells her finally.

“Either you like each other or you don’t.”

“No,” Oswald says. “That’s not it at all.”

~

It’s mid-morning; usually Oswald would be fast asleep at this time, but the conversation with Cat and subsequent lack of word from Ed last night has him worried. It’s not that Ed needs to _check in_ with him; he’s just anxious and malcontent, so he’s settled into his office, ignoring the way his leg aches from being in the same position for so long.

The club is empty and quiet as ever at this time -- he’s rarely down here, and it feels preternatural. Then the silence is broken with a sudden crash and the sound of glass shattering.

His first thought is that Fern may have gotten into some of the wine storage again. Oswald rises to his feet, alarmed, and calls out: “Fern?”

Then he remembers that she’s upstairs, in his suite, and his heart begins to speed in his chest. He reaches out with one hand for the pistol cached underneath his desk. The cool metal feels heavy and reassuring in his hand as he walks, as quietly as he can manage, to the door and opens it a crack. He leans in and listens intently: a hissed curse - the sound of glass crunching underfoot. One set of feet only; easily manageable.

Oswald narrows his eyes and steps out of his office, holding the gun at the ready. “What do you want?” he demands, voice loud and flat.

A beat of silence.

“Oswald?”

Edward’s voice sounds lost, somewhat faint, and Oswald’s heart thumps in his chest, nervously. “Ed?” he calls out.

Ed shuffles into view somewhat unsteadily, and Oswald takes a step toward him, gun ready. “Are you all right?” Oswald demands rapidly. “Are you in danger?”

“Mmm-- no danger,” Ed says, sounding dazed. “No one followed.”

“Okay,” Oswald says, allowing the gun to fall to his side, finally. “Okay.”

A door slams open and he whirls on his heel, practically unbalancing himself as he lifts the gun back up.

“Boss! Are you--?!”

It’s just his security -- trying and _failing_ to do their jobs effectively. Usually Ed gets inside without being seen by anyone, though, and that aberration has Oswald’s pulse spiking once again.

“Get out!” Oswald shrieks, voice cracking with the effort. They jerk to attention and leave the room in double time; but Oswald doesn’t spare them a glance. He stares up at Ed’s conflicted face, worry lancing through him, and drops the gun onto a nearby table, reaching up to grip Ed’s shoulders.

“What happened?” Oswald asks. “What do you need?”

“It’s my fault,” Ed says, “I broke something.”

Oswald shakes his head abruptly. “Don’t worry about that right now,” Oswald says urgently. “Are you hurt?”

“I’ve done so much to hurt you,” Ed breathes, ignoring his question. “Why don't you blame me?”

Oswald feels a sick sort of guilt in his gut. “I have, Ed, and I didn’t enjoy it.”

“No you haven’t,” Ed tells him, and Oswald shakes his head, firmly.

“I have, Ed -- let’s -- let’s not talk about this now,” Oswald says. “You’re in shock.”

“Am I?” Ed asks him.

“You sound like it,” Oswald says. “Are you hurt?” Oswald asks again, bringing his hands up Ed’s sides perfunctorily, eying him for an adverse reaction.

“I don’t think so,” Ed says, but he doesn’t sound certain enough to reassure Oswald.

“Come with me,” Oswald says. “We need to check you over, and you must -- you must be exhausted.”

Ed nods, faintly, and leans his forehead down onto Oswald’s shoulder.

~

Oswald seats Ed on the edge of the suite’s bed and stands in front of him, worried frown etched onto his face. In the clearer lighting, he can see the redness to Ed’s eyes -- and a vague suspicion grows in his chest as he seizes Ed’s face between his hands.

Oswald pulls his lower eyelid down, examining the redness. “You’ve been drugged. What with?”

“It’s just --” Ed says. “It’s just etizolam.”

“Etizolam?” Oswald asks. “What is that?”

Ed waves his hand dismissively. “Benzodiazepine analog.”

“I don’t--”

“Sedative,” Ed interrupts, “anxiolytic, anticonvulsant, hypnotic, amnesic, skeletal muscle relaxant properties. Not approved for medical use by the FDA but unscheduled and legal for research purposes. Used for short-term treatment of insomnia and long-term treatment of some anxiety disorders, though benzodiazepine withdrawal can have dangerous side effects--”

“Are you in _danger_?” Oswald demands shortly, grasping Ed by the shoulder.

“Not with one injection,” Ed says. “Short half-life. Will be out of my system soon.”

Oswald stares at him, briefly. Who could have managed to get close enough to inject him? If it’s not legal for medical use, then it wasn’t Gordon and the others--

The Joker, then.

Oswald feels a cold rush of rage in his chest. He wishes there were some way he could effectively retaliate against the Joker for this _ill-conceived_ plot. But then again … Ed is not his responsibility. To retaliate on his behalf would be tantamount to a declaration. He swallows back his instinct and asks: “You’re sure the dosage was safe? I’ll need to call a doctor, otherwise. Perhaps get you to a--”

“It’ll wear off in a few hours,” Ed says, condescendingly.

“Fine,” Oswald says curtly. He shifts to the side to search through the nightstand for the complimentary first aid kit, kept stocked in each of the rooms.

“He’s back,” Ed tells him after a moment. Oswald frowns as he leans over to search more thoroughly.

“Who?” Oswald asks. “Joker?”

“No, _him_ ,” Ed says emphatically. “He left me alone for the longest time. I’d hoped he was gone forever.”

Oswald frowns as he retrieves the kit, turning back to Ed with a sliver of suspicion worrying at him. Ed’s not quite lucid, and this may be prying, but knowing there might be a threat to Ed... “When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Before Arkham, before we worked together. You know. He showed me my purpose.”

“What’s his name?” Oswald asks impatiently, eyes flickering over Ed. “Strip,” he adds. “I need to check you over.”

“He doesn’t really have one,” Ed says as he complies sluggishly. Oswald sets down the kit to help him with his buttons.

“What does he look like?” Oswald pursues as he pulls off Ed’s shirt and jacket, laying them fastidiously on the bed.

“Exactly like me,” Ed says, and Oswald looks up from unfastening his pants, eyes narrowed.

“In… your mind’s eye?” Oswald asks somewhat hesitantly.

“ _She_ thought it was like that too,” Ed says, irritably. “But he’s _there_ , in the mirrors. You would know.”

“I would?” Oswald remembers in a flash -- Ed’s strange, mirrorless bathroom.

“You were there too.”

“...In the mirrors?” Oswald helps Ed slide out of his pants and begins to look him over, starting at his feet and moving up.

“No, you went wherever. When you were dead. Were you dead?”

“Wh-what?” This is too much, all at once --

“Did you die, when I shot you? Did Strange bring you back?”

“No, I wasn’t dead,” Oswald tells him. “Ivy found me. She’s a talented healer.”

“I don’t like when he’s in control,” Ed tells him, voice low and conspiratorial. “He’s everything I wanted to be, but it’s not… it’s not right. There’s something wrong with him. It’s like he _wants_ me to get hurt.”

He can’t find any physical injuries, which, in light of these revelations, is worrying. “Ed,” Oswald says, hesitatingly, “I want to help you with this, but I’m afraid I’m out of my depth.”

“That’s okay, Oswald,” Ed says. “Just don’t let _him_ know.”

“Can other people talk to him?” Oswald asks. “Have you _seen_ anyone talk to him?” Stranger things have happened, in Gotham; someone creating a clone of Ed would be _odd_ , but not outside the realm of possibility - and the thought strikes Oswald with a deep horror.

“No,” Ed says firmly. “He’s a _hallucination_ , Oswald, no one else can see him.”

“Then how would I tell him?”

“He can take over. He might think it’s a good idea… with you. So don’t tell him if he does.”

“Why with me?” Oswald asks, brow furrowed.

Ed ignores him and brings his hand to Oswald’s shoulder, pulling him closer and pressing a kiss to Oswald’s lips. Oswald lets him, reassured by the physical closeness; but then Ed opens his mouth and tries to draw Oswald’s tongue inside, and Oswald breaks away.

“No, Ed, not right -- not right now,” he says quickly.

The look Ed gives him is heartbreaking, confused and betrayed. “Os--?”

“You’re drugged,” Oswald says, bringing his hand to Ed’s cheek and stroking his thumb over the bone. “You need to sleep. When you wake up, tell me how you feel.”

Ed grips Oswald’s wrist, determinedly. “Don’t leave,” he says. “Please.”

“I won’t,” Oswald tells him. “I’ll wait right here. Go to sleep, Ed; you’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Ed nods, somewhat uncertainly, but he allows his eyes to fall shut and in moments, he’s fast asleep, curled into a half-circle on top of the covers.

Oswald spends endless moments watching Ed’s chest rise and fall from the bedside; but eventually his knee begins to ache in this awkward kneel and he rises to his feet.

It would be more _polite_ to go and sit in the armchair; but he’s tired, and he hardly expects Ed to object to his presence in bed _now_. So he stiffly climbs up onto the bed beside him, still fully dressed, and seemingly on instinct, Ed rolls over and curls into his side.

Oswald falls asleep with Ed’s face resting on his upper chest, painful, blinding affection burning in his heart.

~

“Oswald.”

Oswald doesn’t bother to open his eyes as he throws his arm over the body beside him, burrowing into the warmth contentedly. There’s a warm chuckle and the pass of a hand over his hair, then soft breath caressing his ear as the voice says: “Oswald, wake up.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, rolling away from the body and onto his back. He feels a hand on his face, warm and soft, and brings his own hand up to grip it.

He opens his eyes sleepily to see Ed’s face hovering above his own, expression seeming almost _loving_. He blinks, and Ed’s expression is curious, lips quirked upward and eyes appearing to sparkle in the low lighting.

“Good morning,” Ed murmurs. “Or, afternoon.”

“Definitely morning,” Oswald informs him, voice scratchy, and Ed’s lips curl up into a smirk.

He leans down to kiss Oswald, his hand on Oswald’s face holding him still, and his mouth tastes minty and clean. Oswald feels a noise absurdly like a purr building up in his chest as he throws an arm over and around Ed’s shoulders, dragging Ed down closer to him.

The kiss breaks off into little nips and shared breath and Oswald keeps his eyes shut lest he be overwhelmed by the sight of Ed’s face so close to his.

“I’m fine, by the way,” Ed tells him quietly. “Thank you.”

“Good.” Oswald swallows. His hand tightens on Ed’s shoulder blade, and he consciously forces it to relax. “Ed, I think we should--”

“I want you,” Ed interrupts, and even though he _knows_ it’s to shut him up, a thrill passes through Oswald and he knows it’s futile to resist.

“Okay,” Oswald says, “but don’t think I’m so easily distracted, Ed.”

He feels Ed’s face press into his neck and he blinks his eyes open to stare up at the featureless ceiling. Ed’s chest expands against his, and he lets out his breath in a little irritated huff. “Fine,” he says, a little petulantly, and Oswald strokes his hand over Ed’s shoulder reassuringly.

Ed rises up onto his elbows, then, and his gaze meets Oswald’s.

“Can you ride me?” Ed asks, softly, and Oswald looks dubiously down toward his knee.

“We could try,” he says after a moment. “I don’t how well it would work.”

“I wish you could,” Ed says. “Have you had someone take a look at it?”

Oswald feels irritation stirring in his gut. “Yes,” he snaps perfunctorily. “I have.”

Ed’s eyes dart up to his, expression unreadable. “That upset you.”

Oswald opens his mouth to reply -- but incongruously, he pictures Ivy’s chiding face, when she gets worried about his wellbeing. He blinks, trying to bring the thoughts together-- Oh.

It’s not fair of him to avoid addressing his own issues when Ed has been so open with his, is it? The fact that Ed has been willing to tell him about the scars, about his hallucinations, demonstrates some level of trust, doesn’t it? And while Oswald can _promise_ not to betray his confidence, it won’t _mean_ anything until he proves his willingness to divulge as well.

“Yes,” he admits. “It did upset me. Habit.” He sighs. “I’ve had several specialists look at it, over the years; the only _good_ news is they wouldn’t have been able to do much at the time, either, so I don’t have to live with regret over my circumstances then.” They also told him to wear the brace at all times and prescribed him an obscene amount of opioids, but Oswald had determined that was not compatible with his lifestyle.

Ed nods, thoughtfully. “I did look at it. That was my guess, but…”

Oswald quirks his lips. “You would have told me what treatment to use if you suspected it would work, wouldn’t you have?”

Ed stares at him with wide eyes, and Oswald realizes with a nervous thrill that they are discussing the past. Rapidly, he says: “I can probably manage for a short time with your help.”

“Let’s try,” Ed says, and Oswald begins to strip, yanking off his wrinkled suit jacket and hastily undoing his shirt buttons one by one. Ed grins and reaches for his fly, and Oswald can’t help but roll his hips when he feels Ed’s hands brush against his hardening length.

“Oswald,” Ed mutters, and it almost sounds like a curse.

Moments pass and Oswald is bare, Ed’s fingers slick with spit, and Oswald opens easily under Ed’s now-skilled fingers, the sensation familiar and welcoming. He bites down on his hand to suppress his involuntary groan. But Ed groans, instead, dropping his head onto Oswald’s abdomen and pressing kisses there, as if he’s so _hungry_ for Oswald he can’t get _enough_.

Oswald digs his fingers into Ed’s shoulder, clinging to him as if he’s the only real thing in the room, as if he’s the only thing between Oswald and eternity. Ed sucks a love bite into his abdomen, teeth grazing Oswald’s ribs tantalizingly, and Oswald lets out a choked gasp at the sensation.

When he’s open and ready and thirsting for the feel of Ed’s cock pressing against his entrance he slides his hand up to grip Edward’s hair and tugs, dragging Ed’s face up to his chest, and Ed rests his chin against on Oswald and smiles up at him, warmly, hungrily.

“Well?” Oswald asks, and Ed rises up onto his knees and collapses back against the headboard, his legs bent before him, his arm outstretched to help Oswald up.

It’s with a little trepidation that Oswald straddles Ed’s lap, resting his hands on Ed’s shoulders. Ed looks up at him, deferential, his arms coming to grip Oswald’s waist. Oswald’s bad leg is splayed out, a little, and determinedly Oswald tells himself to _not put any weight on it_ , because he has a tendency to do so, ignoring the pain. Instead he grips Ed’s shoulders, putting all of his weight onto his arms.

Ed takes his cock in hand and together they lower Oswald onto him. Oswald bites his lip and drops his head, a soft moan escaping his lips as he feels the press of Ed’s cock inside him. He wraps his arms more securely around Ed’s shoulders, leaning in toward him, and when Ed is fully sheathed inside him he leans until their chests are pressed flush against each other, Oswald’s cock trapped between their stomachs.

There’s a gust of breath by Oswald’s ear and then Ed takes it between his teeth, nibbling, sending almost ticklish tingles running up and down Oswald’s spine. He presses a kiss to Ed’s neck, scratchy day-old stubble tickling his nose.

He feels Ed’s arms shifting around his waist, getting purchase, and when Ed starts to lift him up he assists, bracing himself against Ed’s shoulders and lifting himself up with his arms. It’s not an easy or natural movement; but as they lower him back down Ed stares up at him, mouth open in astonishment, gaze enraptured, and Oswald thinks the trade is worth it.

They settle into a rhythm. It’s slow; it has to be, but Ed seems to prefer it, pressing kisses to whatever part of Oswald he can reach, tongue hot and hungry. Oswald hums, pleased, enjoying the way his cock rubs against their stomachs, sending occasional enthusiastic thrills running through him.

After a while he feels a dull ache in his leg, pain amplified by his arousal, and he hides his grimace against Ed’s hair. His grip on Ed’s shoulders tightens and he drops himself down onto Ed’s cock with a little more force, enjoying the way Ed strains reactively against him.

“Oswald…” Ed murmurs, voice taut.

“I won’t come like this,” Oswald murmurs. “Go ahead, Ed, I want to see you.”

An almost pained look crosses Ed’s face and his blunt fingernails dig into Oswald’s sides. Oswald leans down and forward and steals a kiss from Ed’s lips, his tongue in Ed’s mouth.

He can feel Ed come inside him, Ed’s grip on him tight, little twinges of pain in his leg. The conflicting sensations make him wince, and he drags his hand up and into Ed’s hair, tugging his face away from Oswald’s, watching his face slacken, pleasure rendering him dazed.

Oswald waits for Ed to regain himself, tugging on his hair periodically, enjoying the way Ed’s eyelashes flutter when he does so. Finally Ed blinks and straightens, his arms around Oswald’s waist tightening.

Without warning he rolls them over, and Oswald yelps as his back hits the mattress, his fingers digging into Ed’s hair cruelly. Ed grins down at him and kisses his lips before moving down to his neck and then his chest, making his way down to Oswald’s arousal, pink and straining.

Ed’s mouth is hungry, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to his hipbone and traveling down until he reaches the base of Oswald’s cock. Oswald moans and shifts at the sensation, pushing his hips up and bumping Ed’s lip with his cock. Ed huffs and grips him firmly with one hand, sending warmth and anticipation racing up Oswald’s spine.

Ed laps the flat of his tongue along the base of Oswald and then takes him into his mouth, tightening his lips around Oswald and sucking. Oswald cants his hips upward on instinct and Ed lets him, moving his head with Oswald as best he can.

He feels the press of fingers against his opening, and he widens his legs to make room for Ed between them. Ed finds his spot quickly, sending a wave of heat rushing over Oswald’s body, turning him senseless with pleasure once again.

“Ed,” he gasps, maybe aloud or maybe in his mind, but Ed seems to hear -- his tongue laps at the head of Oswald’s cock, sending a hot thrill running through him, and takes him back into his mouth.

The twin sensations of Ed’s mouth and fingers have Oswald rolling his hips and digging his fingers into Ed’s hair, his mouth open in a silent scream. He arcs his back as he comes into Ed’s mouth, shuddering moan escaping from his lips, and collapses back against the mattress, breath ragged.

Ed strokes his hand up and down Oswald’s bad leg, warm and reassuring. “Okay?” he mutters, and Oswald nods absentmindedly.

A sigh brushes against Oswald’s thigh and he shudders in response, his hand stroking Ed’s hair on instinct. Ed presses a kiss to Oswald’s hipbone in response, and Oswald tightens his fingers in Ed’s hair.

“Come up here,” he mutters finally, voice scratchy.

He feels a gust of air against his leg once again and then Ed rises up under his hand and unsteadily clambers up beside Oswald. Oswald shifts as Ed collapses onto his back beside him and slightly over him, his arm and leg overlapping Oswald’s. Oswald looks over, and Ed’s eyes are shut, his breathing soft and even.

He can’t possibly break the mood and talk about Ed’s revelations _now_. It will have to wait until they wake up -- there are still a few hours until he’ll need to be awake. Oswald curls up against Ed’s side, wrapping his arm around his torso, and rests his cheek against Ed’s shoulder. Ed hums, contentedly, and Oswald feels a helplessly affectionate smile on his face even as he drifts away into sleep.


	9. We Were Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! A few notes about this chapter:
> 
> I’m trying to be both respectful and realistic about Ed’s mental health issues, and it may not follow the show’s portrayal exactly. However, I am not a mental health professional and have no experience speaking to people who experience DID (dissociative identity disorder) so don't take my work of fiction as rule of law by any means!
> 
> Understandably, Ed doesn’t want to go to a psychiatrist in Gotham because (he’s a wanted criminal and) plenty of them are like Strange, and he’s worried he’ll end up with one he can’t trust. Don’t follow his example. If you need help, seek out the resources you need. <3
> 
> On a lighter note, the fic length has increased by a chapter! I think my planned pacing was off slightly, and Pollllllly and Sharvie in the comments inspired me to elaborate on a subplot. :D
> 
> Enjoy!!  
> ~R

Ed looks so peaceful, curled underneath the covers, expression slack with sleep. Oswald looks down at him, swallowing against the ill-timed lump in his throat. Ed’s gentle breaths are the only sound in the quiet room; that, and the beating of Oswald’s heart.

He _hates_ to leave him. He can hardly stand the thought of Ed waking up on his own -- but he needs a change of clothes and to check on Fern, and the longer he waits, the more likely Ed _is_ going to wake up whilst Oswald is out of the room. With a little moue of frustration, Oswald scribbles a note in case, on the room’s complimentary notepad, his handwriting uneven with tiredness.

_I’m getting a change of clothes and breakfast. I’ll be back shortly._

_O.C._

He stares at the note in indecision. It feels bizarrely impersonal. But what else should he put? “With Love”?

He chews his lip briefly before sighing heavily and scribbling a small umbrella next to his initials. He immediately feels like an idiot. With jerky movements he yanks the paper off of the pad and crumples it, slipping it into his pocket.

_Dear--_

Absolutely not. He yanks it off and adds it to his pocket.

_Ed--_

Much safer.

_I hope you slept well. I’m getting breakfast and a change of clothes. Wait for me._

_Oswald_

Better. It’ll have to do.

He sets it down on the nightstand beside Ed and rises to his feet. His eyes don’t want to leave Ed as he makes his way to the door, tracing the shape of Ed curled up under the covers even as he shuts the door behind him.

~

He comes down the back elevator wearing a new set of clothes and a robe (for Ed, if he wants it) slung over his forearm. When the elevator _dings_ and the doors open, the expression on his face instantly transforms from anticipation to agitation.

“Sorry, he busted his way in after me,” Ivy says, tone conveying her displeasure. She’s slumped over the bar counter with a hand on her forehead, looking for all the world like she’s nursing a massive hangover.

“Hello, Oswald,” Jim says. “Who’s that for?”

“What did I tell you?” Oswald snaps, taking a few steps forward. He doesn’t have his cane; he left it in his office last night and has yet to retrieve it, so his steps are irritatingly labored. “Do I need to call security?”

“I’ve got _plenty_ of eyewitnesses for this one, Oswald, so why don’t you _try_ it--”

“ _Eyewitnesses_?” Oswald scoffs. “You mean to tell me you’re basing this on highly subjective and biased observations from the middle of the night? Who were the witnesses, members of St. Jude’s down the road, scandalized by the behavior of the members of my club?”

“So you’d be willing to share security camera footage proving he’s not here?” Jim says, challengingly.

“A _warrant_? A _subpoena_?” Oswald says sharply back. “Have you heard of _those_ before, Jim? Am I ringing a bell in that cavernous skull of yours?”

“I don’t think I need to remind you,” Jim hisses. Oswald sees a wicked looking scratch on his face, skirting his left eye; if it had been slightly to the right it could have rendered him blind -- and that’s when Oswald realizes they’re only inches apart, snarling into each other’s faces. “-- _why_ you should be helping me.”

“You think you’re so _smart_ ,” Oswald tells him. “Tell me, Jim, why do you even _bother_ anymore? If the Bat has demonstrated anything, it’s how hopelessly _outclassed_ you all are at the GCPD. But you never learn, do you? I offered you assistance when you were vulnerable, Jim, and you refused me time and time again. And the well of my patience has been _more_ than emptied. So _try me_ , Jim. Go ahead!”

Jim stares into his eyes, nostrils flaring, pupils tiny pinpricks.

“Um,” Ivy says, distantly. Oswald’s blood is pounding in his ears. That should be enough to push Jim to--

“Ivy,” Jim says suddenly, turning to face her abruptly.

_Good_. He’s tired of this farce.

“Yeah?” she grumbles.

“I have to tell you something that won’t be easy to hear,” Jim says, tone softening somewhat, and Oswald feels himself pulling his lips into a grimace. The _audacity_ of Jim -- to act as if this _pains_ him, or something, when he knows very well what he is trying to do--!

After all, if Jim’s plan had succeeded, Ivy would be losing one of the few people she considered family, suddenly, abruptly, painfully.

What a _hypocrite_ Jim is.

“Go on,” Ivy says lazily. “Pengy, can I have a Bloody Mary?”

“I knew it,” Oswald snaps, attention divided instantly. “And _no_. I’ll get you coffee, if you like.”

“Pretty please?” Ivy asks, looking up into his eyes.

He and Ivy have had a few more detailed conversations since his revelations to her, and he _does_ feel that the affectionate bond between them has frankly only grown stronger; but the look in her eyes is oddly pleading.

Oswald swallows; perhaps this will be harder on her than he anticipated. Perhaps he shouldn’t have forced Jim to play his hand --

She narrows her eyes at him, then, and he reads the underlying determination in her expression. With a curt smile, he tells her, “I promise coffee will help. Cream?”

“No, thank you,” she tells him, and he nods at her briefly before swinging the robe over a barstool and making his tedious way to the kitchen.

He hears Jim’s voice, terse and determined, and Ivy’s airy unaffected responses. By the time the coffee is made and he’s on his way out, Ivy’s tone has taken on a sharp edge and Jim is standing tense, almost trembling with impotent anger like a muzzled attack dog.

“You _are_ a bully,” Ivy tells Jim. “Thank you, Ozzie.”

“You’re welcome,” Oswald says, trying not to sound too smug. Ivy truly is the best mentee he could have asked for.

“You told her?” Jim asks him, voice accusing.

Oswald turns to face Jim, feeling his lips draw back into a snarl before forcing a (somewhat) neutral look onto his face. “Yes, Jim. You were right -- she deserved to know.”

Jim’s expression shifts a few times, between anger and something not unlike regret. Oswald feels a rush of bitter smugness -- he’s _forgotten_ how nice it is to be underestimated, only to reveal himself in the aftermath, pleased and unaffected. It truly is his _element_.

“Funny how honest you are, Oswald,” Jim says. “I never would’ve pegged you for it.”

“Not everyone is as bull-headed as you, Jim,” Oswald tells him cheerily. “Some people can learn from their mistakes.”

“Mistakes,” Jim says thoughtfully, and Oswald bites his tongue. “I wonder which part was the mistake.”

Oswald watches him carefully, checking for micro-expressions and potential implications, but Jim remains inscrutable. He doesn’t blink as he approaches Oswald, stopping within arm’s reach. He scowls then, darkly.

“You can’t hide him forever, Oswald,” Jim says decisively.

Oswald swallows, feeling nervous and angry and fiercely protective. He covers himself in a veneer of derision. “I never claimed to be the arbiter of this little quarrel,” Oswald says, mockingly. “ _You’ve_ set me up in that position, _Jim_.”

“And we’ll see how long it lasts,” Jim says. He shakes his head, turning away from Oswald and bringing his hand up to the scratch on his face, wincing as he grazes it. “If I were you, Oswald? I’d be a little more worried about what happens when your _usefulness_ runs out.” Oswald bares his teeth, heart in his throat, but Jim turns and strides from the lounge before Oswald can think of how to respond.

“All right, Pengy?” Ivy asks once he’s gone, voice quiet and unsure.

Oswald takes in a deep breath. Stands straighter. “Yes, thank you, Ivy.” When he looks over at her, her expression is cross and worried at once.

“I don’t think I need to ask who that was about,” she says after a moment.

“You most likely don’t,” Oswald agrees. “I’m -- I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She nods, expression almost pitying, and Oswald swallows nervously. He suddenly remembers Cat’s knowing look from last night; the worried pity and condescending knowledge. He hopes she didn’t tell Ivy -- but there’s no way to ask without implicating himself.

~

Oswald pours out the second cup of coffee, adding too much cream and not enough sugar. He finds it a little odd that he can’t remember when he’d learned Ed’s coffee order; he’d certainly never picked up his coffee for him before, that had always been the other way around. Yet somehow, he _does_ know.

He sets it on the tray, next to breakfast servings for two - pastries and fruit - and Oswald’s own cup of coffee. He looks down at the display - absurdly worried it’s too nice, worried it’s not nice enough - and slides his own coffee a fraction toward the center, nervously.

Ivy eyes him as he exits the kitchen, balancing the tray awkwardly in his grip. She half rises, ready to offer help as she usually does; but she meets his eyes knowingly and sits back down. He wishes he could accept her assistance, but Ed would most likely consider that a breach of confidence, despite the fact that she obviously knows who he and Jim were talking about, who has spent the night in one of their suites. He only hopes she hasn’t realized that Oswald spent the night there _with_ him.

Oswald stumbles a little and rights the tray; he _hates_ performing menial tasks for this reason. What is, for anyone else, a simple enough chore becomes an ordeal for him to complete. It’s not that he’s _averse_ to hard work, but when it’s something that should be easy, it renders him frustrated and petty.

“I’ll be in, this evening,” Ivy offers, voice quiet.

“Thank you,” Oswald tells her. “Cat?”

“Out,” she says, and Oswald narrows his eyes in suspicion. He pauses as he passes her, looking over her slightly too-innocent expression.

“ _Don’t_ invite him here,” Oswald says suddenly, quietly, and he knows he’s struck gold when Ivy’s eyes widen even further.

“Who--” she begins, and Oswald cuts her off.

“I’m going to end up insulting him terribly if you keep inviting him on no notice, and then all your plans will be in vain,” Oswald tells her. “I _will_ , purposefully or accidentally.”

“What if he likes that?” Ivy asks coyly, rocking on her feet playfully.

“Don’t-- you--” Oswald snaps, flustered and irritated. “Don’t even -- Ivy!”

She laughs. “I won’t, okay? But I’ve got him on speed dial, just so you--”

“Ivy!” Oswald says. “Let _me_ tell _you_ if I want you to call, okay?”

“Fine, fine,” she says. “Hurry up, or the coffee’ll go cold.”

Oswald’s eyes dart to the barstool from earlier. “Would you get that for me?” he asks, gesturing with his chin. She hops up and retrieves the robe for him, laying it out over his shoulder.

“Afraid of his state of dress?” she murmurs coyly in his ear, and he bares his teeth at her.

“It’s polite,” he hisses, and she rolls her eyes playfully.

“ _That’s_ right,” she says. “I forgot. You’re being ‘polite’.”

“You are a very trying individual,” Oswald informs her primly before turning on his heel to finally make his way back to the suites.

~

Ed leaps to his feet once Oswald opens the door and he takes the tray from Oswald immediately, allowing Oswald to make his way inside the suite without trouble. Oswald is set off balance momentarily by Ed’s state of dress (or lack thereof -- he’s only wearing boxer briefs) and when he sets the tray on mattress, Oswald holds the robe out to him indicatively.

“You’re awake. Did you get my note?” Oswald asks.

“Yes,” Ed says immediately, as he takes the robe. “Thank you.”

“I hope you didn’t wait too long?”

“Not at all,” Ed says, shrugging the robe on and clambering onto the bed beside the tray. Without pausing, he picks up his coffee -- of course, he knows the difference well enough to recognize which is his and which is Oswald’s. Oswald seats himself on the mattress as well, on the other side of the tray as Ed.

He takes a sip of his coffee, looking over the lip of the mug at Ed. Ed busies himself with his plate of food, picking up one of the little pastries with delicate fingers.

“So, last night…” Oswald begins hesitantly.

Ed looks up from his plate, eyes wide. “The plan went off without a hitch,” he tells Oswald, who frowns in confusion.

“Is… that…”

Ed waves a dismissive hand, overly nonchalant. “That was all afterward,” he says, voice affecting casualness, and Oswald narrows his eyes.

“You were drugged,” he begins, and Ed interrupts.

“Yes; there was a bit of a skirmish. Nothing serious.”

Oswald stares at him, a little dumbfounded. For Ed to pretend that it was nothing of consequence seems absurd at best - he’d come stumbling to Oswald for assurance, after all. But perhaps: “You said it could have amnesic properties. Do you remember everything?” Oswald asks finally.

Ed looks down. “Yes,” Ed says, fiddling with his fork. It clinks against his plate and his lip twitches as if offended. “I told you about my hallucinations,” he says in a rush, and he drops his fork as if startled by his own words.

“You did,” Oswald says. He looks down at his own plate and when he looks back up, Ed is watching him with wide, uncertain eyes. Oswald swallows. “I won’t lie; it does concern me. Perhaps in large part because I’m not sure what I need to do.”

Ed shrugs, too rapidly and too nervously. “There’s nothing really _to_ do.”

Oswald scoffs, faintly. “There has to be _one_ morally dubious licensed psychiatrist in Gotham.”

“I don’t--” Ed holds a hand up, as if to halt Oswald. “I can’t _trust_ them.”

Oswald scowls sympathetically. Strange had … Strange had had access to his mind and used that privilege to _brainwash_ him. “I understand,” Oswald says, too quietly. Together they look down to their plates, and Oswald feels strangely self-conscious as he pushes a bit of plum around with his fork.

There’s something else he needs to be sure of; something rather unpleasant. “How would I know?” he asks quickly, spearing the plum.

“How would you know what?” Ed asks him.

“If it’s you or him.”

There’s no immediate response; Oswald finally looks up to see a kind of dread in Ed’s eyes, in his taut and worried frown.

“He’s rude,” Ed says finally, pulling off his glasses and fiddling with the lens alignment. His brows are drawn and he’s not even _attempting_ to meet Oswald’s eyes. “He won’t listen to you. He tries to be… very charming. He’s...overbearing.”

“Ed, not to-- not to be indelicate, but at times you act that way,” Oswald says.

“But--” Ed shifts his plate onto the bed beside him and rises to his feet, agitated. He puts his glasses back on and digs his fingers into his hair. “--he’s _malicious_.”

“Would I be able to _see_ that?” Oswald asks.

Ed visibly pulls on his hair, chewing his lip. He’s getting worked up in a way that worries Oswald, but he needs to know -- if this other self poses a danger to himself or Ed, he needs to know how to recognize him.

“He wants you closer, but farther,” Ed says in a rush. “He doesn’t like that you know about-about the scars, but he doesn’t want -- I -- he doesn’t --” Ed takes a deep breath and seems to steel himself. “You were the first person in my life that he approved of. ...And he wants you to _stay_ that way.”

“What way?”

“When you were staying with me,” Ed says, and stops.

Oswald’s eyes travel over Ed’s face, trying to read the hidden message there. “When I was horribly depressed and despondent?” Oswald asks, eyebrow raised.

“No--!” Ed shakes his head, fiercely. “Not that. But when you were there…”

Oswald narrows his eyes, consideringly. Ah. “Unable to leave…”

Ed looks at him with wide, guilty eyes. “You _had_ to be my friend,” he says. “And mentor. And you _couldn’t_ leave me, or hurt me. Everyone always…” he trails off, arm outstretched as if gesturing to the city at large.

Oswald leans back a little, pondering. “So…”

“He wants me to…” Ed’s face flattens to near-expressionlessness. He lifts a hand to his face, pushing his glasses up off the bridge of his nose and reseating them. “...to clip your wings.” He drops his hand back down to his side. “Metaphorically speaking.”

Oswald flinches involuntarily. “Ed…”

“So you can’t hurt him again. Me.” Edward’s gaze travels to the ground. “You did hurt me, Oswald.”

Oswald swallows. The seconds tick by, but he has no idea what to say.

“When I heard it, I didn’t _want_ to believe it,” Ed says finally, a little desperately. “When Barbara told me, I didn’t _believe_ her. I told her it was _absurd_.”

Oswald shuts his eyes. “Ed…”

“And I--I didn’t know what to _do_. I tried to be like you. I tried to do what _you_ would do if someone betrayed you.”

There are a pair of hands on his shoulders and Oswald’s eyes open wide, immediately, his heart racing with surprise. Ed is looking down at him, expression confused and conflicted. His bottom lip is turning blood red from his teeth as he continues to worry at it. Oswald feels almost detached from the moment -- so terrified of _something_ that he can’t even begin to think how to respond.

“You _hurt_ me, Oswald, and I couldn’t -- I couldn’t destroy you. I wasn’t good enough.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Oswald watches, frozen in panic and internal conflict. “I wanted you _gone_ so badly. But I didn’t know what to _do_ when you were gone.”

Oswald can feel his pulse thundering in his throat, instinctive fear at Ed’s tone and proximity batting at him. He pulls himself away, jerkily, and Ed lets him go without fighting, his hands hovering in the air as if they’ve forgotten what they were doing. Oswald rises immediately to his feet and takes a few instinctive steps toward the door.

“Ed,” Oswald says nervously, quickly. “Do you want something else to eat or drink? I can--”

“Oswald,” Ed says insistently. “Please.”

Oswald freezes, heart in his throat.

“I want...” Ed says, voice soft, “...to talk. About it.”

“We agreed--” Oswald says, voice throaty.

“At the beginning of this, you said we could talk about it or not,” Ed says. “I want to.”

“And say _what_?” Oswald demands, whirling on his heel to face Ed. “What is there to say, Ed?”

And Ed, oh, Ed watches him with solemn eyes, arms still hovering undecidedly in the air before him. He swallows visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing, and brings a nervous hand up to rest by his throat. “I never thanked you for all you did for me. When you let me out of Arkham.”

Oswald blinks fiercely.

“No one else would have done that for me. But you -- you did.”

Oswald feels over-awake, over-aware, and yet hardly present. He doesn’t feel his mouth moving as he says: “Consider it compensation.”

“We _were_ friends,” Ed says quietly.

This man… Oswald can hear the doubt in his voice. How could he still be in doubt of the position he’d held in Oswald’s mind and heart? Platonic _or_ romantic, there never was and never will be anyone else like him. “Of _course_ we were, Ed. You were my best friend.”

“And…”

Ed swallows, and Oswald feels a dull, preemptive dread fill his gut.

“You really did love me, didn’t you, Oswald?”

Oswald shuts his eyes, fearful of what they might tell Ed. After all this time, Ed still doubts. It’s _exhausting_. It’s nearly _beyond comprehension_. And the degree to which he’s demanding emotional resources from Oswald is nearly parasitic.

Does he have the strength..? To give Ed the approval he is still seeking, knowing Ed has nothing to give Oswald in return?

“I’ve told you the answer before, and you have an eidetic memory,” Oswald says finally, sharply. “You are _not_ allowed to bring that up. Ever again.”

“Okay,” Ed says, voice quiet.

Oswald lets out a sigh that is an unlikely mix of relief and regret.

“We made a good team,” Ed says finally, and Oswald smirks, feeling his eyes burn unexpectedly.

“That we did,” he agrees. “We accomplished a great deal.”

He feels weighed down, as if by regret, his frustration at past decisions nearly overwhelming. To think of what he and Ed could have accomplished together… instead of the city being divided into factions, skirmishes between the various criminal elements and the GCPD and the mysterious masked vigilante who roams their city streets, perhaps the entire city would now be under their combined rule. True _kings_ of Gotham.

But too much regret is self-defeating; he’d made what decisions he could at the time. It was no doubt the _wrong_ decision to kill her, or perhaps to kill her in such a way that Ed might have discovered it was murder; but then again, he would not have _borne_ being forced to witness their disgustingly dysfunctional and all-consuming relationship and would have inevitably banished either her or Ed from the mansion altogether.

Or perhaps, he realizes with a sick cloying fear, he could have had _Ed_ killed in a fit of rage once his patience had worn thin. And that - _that_ decision could have truly destroyed him in the end.

“The other one _probably_ won’t want hurt you,” Ed blurts out, and Oswald opens his eyes. “I think he’d want to _goad_ you.”

Oswald’s eyes rove over Ed’s face. “Looking for a reaction? Trying to set me off-balance?”

Ed scowls a little. “Both, I suppose. He’d want to --” Ed cuts off abruptly and blinks. “-- gauge your emotional response. To various stimuli.”

“‘Various stimuli’?” Oswald asks, a little dubiously. “Does he think I’m a _scientific experiment_?”

“He thinks _everyone_ is,” Ed says, “to some degree.”

Oswald nods. “So… if I meet him…”

“Just… don’t let him get too close. And wait.”

Oswald eyes Ed over; he appears in earnest. Oswald furrows his brow and snorts. “So do nothing?”

“He can’t take over _forever_ ,” Ed says. “Eventually he has to let go.”

“Ed,” Oswald says, and closes his mouth. Ed watches him, eyes nervous and assessing. “Ed, this is playing with fire. If he’s truly as unpredictable as you think he is--”

“I know,” Ed says, but Oswald continues:

“--then you _need_ to have some sort of - of protocol, or a plan--”

“I _know_ ,” Ed says, voice aggravated. “I _know_ , Oswald; I’m _working_ on it.”

“‘Working on it’?” Oswald asks. “ _Ed_ \--”

“ _He_ ,” Ed interrupts abruptly, “can hear _everything_ I say. He knows everything I _do_ , everything I _think_.”

Oswald blinks, startled. Ed’s expression is worried, fearful, and Oswald feels a flicker of reactive pity and alarm -- to be that afraid of something that is inside him… “And you…”

“I can’t out- _plan_ him,” Ed says, but there’s a steely look in his eyes.

Oswald narrows his eyes. “Very well,” he says quietly.

Ed takes a deep breath. “So,” Ed says after a pause, “if you see him, just wait and try not to engage him.”

“Okay,” Oswald says, voice soft.

“Oswald,” Ed says, putting his hands on each of Oswald’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

“For?” Oswald asks, lifting his hand to rest atop Ed’s.

Ed doesn’t respond, leaning down until his face is within a hair’s breadth of Oswald. He captures Oswald’s lips, and when Oswald lets him, he leans in, his hands sliding down to rest on Oswald’s upper arms gently. Oswald lets out a painfully wistful sigh, bringing his hand to Ed’s upper chest, and when his fingers brush Ed’s bare skin in the V of the dressing gown, Ed shivers.

“Oswald…” Ed murmurs, and in a painfully tender movement, he pulls away from Oswald’s lips and all but nuzzles Oswald’s face. Oswald’s breath catches in his throat as Ed whispers in his ear: “You’ll still -- you still want..?” His face is hot and Ed’s familiar scent wafts over him, and the delicate brush of Ed’s cheek against his wonderful, terrifying, bewitching. He’s stricken with agony, frozen where he stands -- his ear, his cheek, his arms where Ed is touching him are on _fire_. Time seems protracted, stretched out until it no longer holds any meaning; and Oswald is trapped inside of a single second.

“Oswald?” Ed asks, and then he tightens his grip on Oswald’s arms. “Oswald?” he says again, insistently, and time rebounds like a stretched rubber band being released.

“Yes--” Oswald says immediately, reflexively, and then his brain catches up with him. “I still…” he says hesitantly.

“But you _know_ I’m… I’m…” Ed’s voice drops off and he slides his hands down Oswald’s arms, the warmth from his touch searing Oswald’s skin. When he reaches Oswald’s hands he lifts them and tries to move them. Oswald allows his hands to be tugged around but waits, bewilderedly, until he realizes what Ed’s doing: and then he wraps his arms around Ed’s waist. Ed seems to sag with relief as he drags his hands back up to Oswald’s shoulders. He drops his head down onto Oswald’s shoulder, and Oswald is struck with a sudden realization of their position: like a couple slowdancing.

Ed mutters something finally, inaudibly.

“Hm?” Oswald asks. He can’t concentrate on Ed’s breathy, unfocused murmurs, not with Ed so close and so warm.

“There’s something _wrong_ with me,” Ed says.

Oswald tightens his hold on Ed’s waist and thoughtlessly strokes one flat palm over Ed’s lower back. Ed leans against him in response. “Ed,” Oswald says, and hesitates. “I’m not fully at ease with this, you understand that, right?”

He feels Ed’s hands tighten on his shoulders, but otherwise there’s no response.

“I can _not_ overstate my concern,” Oswald says. “But…” He takes in a deep breath, and Ed’s scent fills his lungs. “...this… it’s still… it doesn’t change who you are.”

“But it _does_ ,” Ed says.

“Well --” Oswald says, flustered. “--it--” How does he _say_ this without revealing the fact that he _loves_ Ed… that he’s willing to work with him, despite the potential risks? Even now, as if by a pendulum swing, the reassurance of Ed’s touch turns to apprehension. Why does Ed continually demand evidence of Oswald’s enduring interest? Is he _trying_ to get Oswald to admit it? Does he suspect? Is _this_ Ed’s plan… was this his plan _all along_?

He’s too panicked now to think of an acceptable response -- so Oswald takes the path of least resistance. 

He releases Ed’s waist and grips the man’s face firmly, dragging him off of Oswald’s shoulder. Ed stares at him with wide eyes, still waiting for Oswald’s answer; but instead Oswald pulls him forward and captures his mouth.

Ed _whines_ when he does, his grasping hands sliding around Oswald’s back and trying to pull him closer. Oswald holds Ed’s face firmly between his palms, directing the kiss, and Ed finally relaxes his clutching hands, letting them rest trembling against Oswald’s clothed shoulders.

Oswald steps forward and Ed stumbles back until he jerks to a halt -- the backs of his knees have bumped the edge of the mattress. Out of his peripheral vision, Oswald spots the tray on the mattress and releases Ed abruptly, leaving the taller man blinking and confused with arms outstretched.

“Oswald,” Ed says, voice turned panicked. “Oswald?”

Leaning around Ed hastily, Oswald snatches the tray from off the bed and discards it on the floor. It makes an obnoxious clatter, but it shouldn’t be audible outside the room and he doesn’t _care_ , regardless - he’s rising back up and gripping Ed by the forearms, easing him back down against the mattress.

Ed leans back compliantly, until the weight differential becomes too much and he collapses back against the mattress, Oswald balanced over him, arms caging Ed in place.

With eyes wide and lashes fluttering, Ed stares up at Oswald as if frozen. As Oswald watches, he bites his lip, slowly, and Oswald feels a flood of _some_ strong emotion. He lowers himself down onto his elbows and presses his lips to Ed’s, and when Ed releases his lower lip Oswald captures it between his teeth. Ed makes a fantastic noise and rolls his hips up so that his growing arousal brushes against Oswald.

Oswald deepens the kiss, exploring Ed’s familiar mouth, and shifts his weight to untie the belt of the dressing robe. Ed squirms under his hands, rising up against him and seeming almost to _writhe_ under Oswald’s touch as he pulls the robe off Ed’s shoulders and tugs him up. And when he’s released Ed from the robe, and the only thing left covering him is the boxer briefs he’d had on before, Oswald straightens and takes a step back, pulling the boxers down with him. Down Ed’s long, _long_ legs, until they’re off completely and Oswald discards them on the floor uncaringly.

And there’s _Ed_ , naked before him, his torso resting on the bed and his legs dangling off the side. His arousal is obvious and growing and as Oswald watches Ed whines impatiently and rises onto his elbows.

“ _Oswald_ …” he says demandingly, and Oswald holds up a hand in response, bringing his other hand to his tie.

He’d had no choice but to get fully dressed (and he’s glad he did, since Jim had shown up) but now he’s wishing he’d chosen fewer layers. It’s all he can do to undress himself quickly, and Ed keeps watching him with those dark, burning eyes as he does, which makes concentration nigh impossible.

But finally all of his clothes are slung neatly over the back of the room’s chair and he’s striding purposefully toward Ed; Ed who sinks down onto his back as Oswald approaches, mouth open to anticipatory pants of air.

When Oswald reaches him he kisses him, quickly and firmly, and without waiting for Ed’s response he kisses his jaw, then his throat, then makes his way down Ed’s torso until he reaches Ed’s arousal. Ed’s hands come up to rest on his shoulders, skin warm and grip comforting.

He darts his tongue out and tastes the tip of Ed, enjoying the way Ed’s hips buck up against him. He strokes his palms up Ed’s sides, reveling in the shifts and shivers, mouthing at his arousal with increasing hunger.

Oswald takes Ed into his mouth, finally, and when he does Ed gasps and digs his fingers into Oswald’s shoulders. Oswald has to pin Ed to the mattress with his full weight, and even then Ed wriggles underneath him. In retaliation Oswald pulls off of him and nips Ed’s inner thigh with his teeth. But Ed yelps and jumps and squirms at that, hooking his leg around Oswald’s shoulder and back.

Huffing out an amused laugh, Oswald wraps his arm around Ed’s thigh, holding the leg against him. He raises his other hand to his lips, slicking his fingers as quickly and efficiently as he can manage before returning his mouth to Ed’s cock.

He presses his fingers over Ed’s entrance and Ed’s thigh grips him more firmly as he slips his fingers inside, increasing the exploratory pressure until Ed practically convulses against him and lets out a ragged gasp.

Oswald thrusts his fingers against the spot and licks a hungry stripe up Ed’s cock and he hears Ed let out a hiss and then, as if unthinking, begin to murmur under his breath. “Oswald, Oswald, _Oswald_ ,” Ed repeats with increasing intensity, and it spurs Oswald on, his thrusting fingers taking up a pulsing rhythm and his mouth watering as he takes Ed in as deep as he can manage.

When Ed comes his leg tenses and traps Oswald against him, and Oswald swallows down his come, his fingers pressing firmly on Ed’s spot so that he keeps trembling and shuddering even as Oswald pulls his mouth off of his cock and presses kisses against his hipbone.

“More,” Ed finally gasps insistently, and Oswald smirks into his skin.

“You’ll have to let go first,” Oswald tells him, patting his thigh.

With an aggravated noise, Ed shifts his leg off of Oswald and releases his shoulders, throwing his arms onto the mattress beside him. “ _Oswald_ ,” he says, irritated, impatient, and Oswald slips his fingers out of Ed, slowly and gently, before seizing Ed’s waist and awkwardly shoving him up along the mattress until he’s laid out completely.

Oswald climbs up over him, and as his eyes meet Ed’s again, he’s struck by the familiar almost-smile on Ed’s face, his brows creased. Ed catches Oswald’s stare, and in response he writhes on the mattress and arches his back teasingly. Oswald huffs out a breath and nips Ed’s collarbone as he reaches down to line himself up against Ed’s entrance. When he begins to press inside, almost effortlessly, Ed wraps his legs around Oswald’s waist and throws his head back, revealing the long line of his neck. Oswald kisses his neck, tasting the salt and sweetness, and lowers himself on top of Ed.

Ed wraps his arms around Oswald and Oswald presses him into the mattress, his weight bearing down on Ed. Ed makes a little noise and tucks his face against Oswald’s temple, and all at once Oswald is frozen again, stricken by the pseudo-affection of Ed’s touch. Eventually, Ed squirms enticingly underneath him and digs his fingers into Oswald’s back and Oswald remembers how to move.

But when he thrusts it’s gentle, and Ed clings to him tighter, a soft noise escaping his lips by Oswald’s ear. Ed is warm and wonderful and as Oswald moves against him he ebbs and flows like the tide, pulling Oswald further and further into his embrace.

Oswald doesn’t even know where he ends and Ed _begins_ , now. He tucks his face into Ed’s shoulder, blinking back stubborn tears. Ed makes another pleased noise, a happy hum, and suddenly Oswald is struck by the familiar burning feeling of _ambition_ : to make Ed make noises like this _always_ , _forever_ , and Oswald presses an open-mouthed kiss to Ed’s pulse to help cope with the raging, hungering desire thundering in his chest.

It feels so much like _making love_ that Oswald feels lost, and so he makes _Ed_ his magnetic north, _Ed_ his guiding light and desire. When he’s _inside_ Ed the fear is lesser, because any loving embrace or whispered word of affection can be dismissed as the throes of passion rather than the all-consuming adoration that Oswald will never be free from.

When he feels the familiar rush and tingling of orgasm, Ed makes another one of those soft, happy noises, directly into his ear, and Oswald bites down gently on his pulse. Ed’s head shifts against Oswald’s, practically a _nuzzle_ , and Oswald has to take in a deep, slow breath to cool the passion in his blood. Ed grips him in his amorous embrace and sighs softly, gently, _contentedly_.

~

Ed is dressing in his wrinkled clothing from last night, and slower, more reluctantly, Oswald is putting himself back together, hoping that his hair hasn’t been too completely altered by their… their… _lovemaking_ , Oswald thinks to himself, quietly, secretly. Their _lovemaking_.

Despite that sentiment, Oswald still feels doubt burning in his breast -- Ed is definitely hiding something. Something seems _off_ ; his dismissal of the “skirmish” which resulted in him being drugged strikes Oswald as suspicious. But perhaps he doesn’t know that Oswald knows about the Joker’s vendetta -- maybe he will be more willing to share if he knows Oswald already knows.

And besides, the encounter with Jim this morning has given him an idea.

“Ed?” Oswald says to Ed’s back as he shrugs his dress shirt on.

“Yes?” Ed asks, turning back to face Oswald as he fastens the long line of buttons.

“Jim is hot on your trail,” Oswald informs him, “and he’s angry. You’ll need to do something drastic to get him to leave you alone.” Oswald meets Ed’s eyes searchingly, determined. “Or even better, you could get another loose cannon to cause enough fuss to draw his attention.”

“Did you just call me a loose cannon?” Ed asks, lips curving into a coy smile.

“Ed,” Oswald says seriously. “Do you see what I’m implying?” Ed snatches up his tie and throws it around his neck. “Goad the Joker into doing something drastic to draw Jim’s attention. I’m not sure what else will distract him at this point, unless you let yourself get caught.”

“The Joker?” Ed asks, brow raised. Oswald suppresses his smile -- there we go.

“My intelligence network is inarguably the best,” Oswald tells him. “I would have expected you to know that.”

Ed smirks. “Even then, you never fail to impress.”

“I’ll take the compliment,” Oswald says. Ed picks up his suit jacket and slings it over his forearm. “Ed.”

“I’ll take your advice under consideration,” Ed says. “But Oswald, I do have plans of my own.”

Oswald watches him as he digs through his suit pockets fastidiously, his eyes refusing to meet Oswald’s. “Are you _trying_ to end up back at Arkham?” Oswald asks, suddenly suspicious. Perhaps that was Ed’s plan all along… perhaps _that_ was why he’d been luring the GCPD to his hideout, all those months ago...

“No!” Ed looks down at him, startled.

Oswald eyes him, carefully; but he’s unable to read anything below the surface. “Okay then,” Oswald says. “Well… just remember what I said.”

Ed smiles at him, a little nervously. “Goodbye, Oswald,” he says. With his jacket still slung over his arm, he darts in and presses a kiss to Oswald’s cheek, quick and exuberant. “Take care.”

“I will,” Oswald says, “if you do the same.”

Ed makes his way toward the door, but before he leaves, he turns back and says quickly: “And don’t let any more police detectives into your club after hours.”

“Ed!” Oswald yelps, startled. He takes a few hesitant steps toward the door as Ed darts out of the suite. “Were you eavesdropping? Ed!” There’s no response -- he’d chase after him but he’s still only half dressed. “Damn it,” Oswald mutters to himself, shrugging his vest on brusquely.


	10. He Doesn't Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait again, everyone. Life is an endless stream of torment, and anyway I can make no promises about timeliness in the future, but this fic is very close to my heart. Also I tried writing my own riddle (instead of stealing it from the internet) for the first time so I hope it’s okay.
> 
> Much thanks to my friend Flux who very patiently helped me develop Ed’s alter.
> 
> **WARNING: There is minor, non-graphic, but potentially disturbing violence in this chapter. Nothing worse than what appears in the show.**
> 
> I hope you enjoy!  
> ~R
> 
> PS: Ed and Os were both **smoking hot** in 4x03 amirite? I died.

The next time Cat’s in, it’s after the Lounge has closed one evening, and Oswald is crouching behind the bar counter, peering at bottles. Fern is staring down at him from the counter, perhaps too intrigued in his work. He’s keeping a wary eye on her, but when Cat swoops in she scoops Fern up in her arms.

“Hey, Oswald,” she says. “Doing well?”

“Fine,” he says dispassionately, rising to his feet with some difficulty and leaning one forearm against the counter. “Cat…”

She looks up from Fern to meet his gaze, amber eyes curious.

He takes in a deep breath and steels himself. “Did you tell Ivy?” he demands in a rush. “It wasn’t your place, Cat. I understand that you--”

“I didn’t,” she interrupts. “Yeah, no way I’m making that easier on you.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Of _course_ it’d make it easier,” she tells him, exasperated. “Imagine sitting down and telling her that you’ve been screwing the Riddler for months without telling her. Really _picture_ it. Picture her _face_ as you explain the fact that you can’t keep your tongue out of his mouth and that every time he’s been over here you guys have been bumping uglies.”

“Shit,” Oswald mutters. _She’s right._

“I have the pics of you two swapping spit on the street, by the way. You’re lucky I like you because I don’t even want to _imagine_ how much I could make auctioning _that_ off.”

Oswald curls his lip at her. “If I really _tried_ , Cat, I’m sure I could get some surveillance footage from Wayne Manor.”

Cat snorts. “You think I’d care? You think someone’d try to ransom me to my billionaire boyfriend? I can take care of _myself_.”

Oswald sighs, frustratedly. “Well, I can’t tell Ivy about it, anyway,” he says. “I promised.”

Cat rolls her eyes, giving a theatrical shrug. “Hey, it’s your decision. But I reserve the right to call you a dumbass when you realize how stupid you’re being.”

“Fine,” Oswald snaps, trying to tamp down on his automatic irritation.

“Aaaaanyway,” she says. “I came over for a reason. I’ve got something going on tomorrow night, and I was wondering if my friends and I can come here afterward.”

Oswald heaves a sigh, leaning against the counter more heavily. “Really, Cat? You couldn’t tell me sooner?”

“Plans changed,” she says. “My guy fell through.”

Oswald leans against the counter. “What time? How many? What goods?”

“Around midnight. Two others with me. Just some small, wearable, shiny goods.”

“Fine,” Oswald says. “You know the drill, use the back entrance, take a suite, and for god’s sake don’t lead Jim Gordon here.”

“Right,” she says, setting Fern back down on the counter. “Any other cop okay?” she asks jauntily, taking a few steps backward. “Say, the captain? That okay with you?”

“Very funny,” Oswald tells her snidely. “You know what I mean.”

“You gonna be there, or are you gonna make scarce?” she asks.

Oswald looks down at the counter. “I’m not certain.”

She giggles, the sound uncharacteristically carefree. “Ozzie, you can just _say_ ‘Let me see if the Riddler wants to bone’. I’m not judging.”

“You _are_ ,” Oswald snaps. “You literally _are_ judging.”

“See you tomorrow night… or not!” she tells him cheerily, disappearing into one of the back rooms.

Oswald sighs, dropping his head onto his arms. He feels a cat paw bat at the top of his head, and lets out a weary groan.

~

The Riddler does indeed want to bone.

That’s the assumption, anyway; as night begins to close in and the Iceberg begins to fill with patrons Oswald sends a question mark to Ed’s burner phone and a few moments later gets back an exclamation point.

A few minutes pass, and then his phone pings again. Oswald practically drops it as he fishes it out of his pocket and stares at the screen.

_Mine_ , the screen reads.

Oswald bites his tongue. Contextually, the meaning is obvious. Ed means “let’s meet at mine”. Still, Oswald entertains a brief fantasy, wispy and ephemeral like a dream: Ed leaning in close, his lips against Oswald’s ear as he whispers: “ _Mine_.”

Oswald shivers, and types back: _Yes_.

~

Ed’s waiting for him outside the dilapidated exterior of his apartment building, smelling like the harbor.

“Busy day?” Oswald asks as he enters hearing range, and Ed’s lips curl up into a smirk.

“You could say that,” he allows. “Yours?”

“Not yet,” Oswald tells him, and Ed’s grin widens.

When Oswald reaches him, Ed dips at the waist and kisses Oswald at the corner of his lips, a strangely sweet gesture, and pulls away before Oswald can attempt to reciprocate. Ed wraps his arm around Oswald’s back to guide him toward the front door. “I don’t have anything planned. We can get takeout?”

Oswald gives Ed a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Will delivery people _come_ here? You live in an abandoned building.”

“Oh, my regulars know me,” Ed tells him cheerily, and Oswald rolls his eyes. _Of course_.

“Fine by me,” Oswald says. “I _will_ point out that this would be my brunch.”

“Ah,” Ed says hesitatingly as he opens the door and politely ushers Oswald inside. “Right.”

Ed leads the way to his kitchen; Oswald follows without protest. He has no particular ambitions for the evening; he feels cast adrift, almost. Ed begins opening cupboards, peering inside with a pensive expression, and Oswald leans back against the kitchen counter, his eyes gliding up and down Ed’s figure. The long lines of his body, the overenthusiastic and clumsy movements of his limbs. He chews his lip uncertainly as he searches, and Oswald hides his fond smile behind his hand.

“Do you need help?” Oswald asks finally, amused.

“Pancakes?” Ed asks, turning to face him.

Oswald smiles freely, his eyes drifting over Ed’s face. “Sounds excellent.”

~

They keep their hands mostly to themselves as they eat - Oswald isn’t sure what it is, exactly, but it seems too intimate to do otherwise. Or perhaps not intimate; perhaps _domestic_. Oswald longs for it, distantly, but he ignores the feeling, smiling at Ed and listening to the other man as he rambles on about this or that. When their plates are mostly cleared, and a content silence has fallen over them, Ed brings his hands to rest on the table nervously. Rapidly, he says: “I am given when I receive. I warm the heart of both the giver and taker.”

Oswald eyes him up and down. Ed seems sheepish, almost, uncertain if Oswald will afford him the time to solve it. Oswald rests his chin on his hand, eyes unfocusing and gaze drifting down to the surface of the table.

“Gratitude,” he says, and he hears Ed let out what sounds like a relieved sigh.

“Yes, Oswald, I…”

“Gratitude for what?” Oswald interrupts, brow furrowed.

With a little frown, Ed falters, and Oswald feels a nervous jolt, hoping he hasn’t misinterpreted anything. Ed’s lip twitches and he rises to his feet, grabbing his own plate and Oswald’s and hurrying back to the kitchen.

“Ed?” Oswald calls after him.

“Sorry,” Ed mutters. “I meant…”

He turns on his heel to face Oswald, holding the plates aloft. “After what I _told_ you…”

“ _Oh_ ,” Oswald says. He feels like an absolute fool.

Ed faces back toward the sink. “I am grateful,” Ed says stiltedly, “that you seem willing to--to see me, regardless.”

“Yes,” Oswald finds himself saying, quietly. “Of course.”

Ed sets the dishes into the sink and turns to face Oswald finally. A thrill of nervousness passes through Oswald when he sees his expression; it’s strained, worried. Oswald looks Ed up and down: his long, lean body tensed, eyes downcast.

Ed licks his lip. “You’ve been more understanding than I expected. Or hoped.”

Oswald swallows and looks down, trying to hide the emotion on his own face. “Think nothing of it,” he forces himself to say, and looks back up.

Suddenly Ed is standing very close to him, his body radiating heat. His eyes are focused on Oswald’s throat, dark and attentive. “Oswald,” Ed says quietly. “How can I thank you?” His eyes are wide-pupiled and intent.

Right. A part of Oswald is disappointed, stupidly, because of _course_ this is about sex; but despite himself, his throat burns at the implications. He finds his hand reaching up to grip Ed by the nape of his neck and drag him down until his face is resting against Oswald’s shoulder. Oswald tilts his head so he can murmur into Ed’s ear, and Ed gives a little shudder at the sensation.

“You feel you need to… earn your way?” Oswald asks. He can feel the heat of his own cheeks; he’s certain he’s blushing wildly. “Inside me?” he adds, and when Ed shivers under his hand he thinks he’s gotten it correct. “I want verbal confirmation,” he adds, and he feels Ed shift his head a little.

“Yes,” Ed murmurs.

“Okay,” Oswald says, and his mind races to find an idea. Simple. Straightforward. “Get me off twice before you can be inside me,” he says, and Ed reaches out almost convulsively to grip Oswald’s waist. “Does that work?”

“If -- yes,” Ed says. “What if I can’t?”

“Then I guess you don’t get to fuck me,” Oswald says, a little glibly, and Ed leans in with his entire body until he’s pressed flush against Oswald. “Well? You’d better get started.”

Ed lets out a hot and uneven breath. “Bedroom,” he says, voice low and gravelly, and Oswald bites his lip to suppress his smile.

~

Ed’s hands on him start tentative and gentle, his fingers skirting the lines of Oswald’s suit jacket, straightening his lapels and stroking over his shirt collar. Oswald smiles up at him, fondly, and steps back until the backs of his calves bump the edge of the mattress. He sits down and smirks up at Edward, whose hands have landed on Oswald’s shoulders.

Oswald allows his head to loll back, drawing attention to his throat. “Ed.”

Ed’s lips part, revealing his tongue. “Oswald,” he says, voice gruff.

“You know what I like,” Oswald says, and Ed licks his bottom lip, slowly. “Don’t you?”

Ed gives a breathy sigh as he reaches out with two hands to begin untying Oswald’s tie. His hands move quickly, efficiently, and Oswald swallows a little harshly as Ed tugs one end of his tie, and the fabric rushes by, generating heat along the nape of his neck.

“Up to anything exciting?” Oswald asks, mock-casually, and Ed bites his lip as he begins to unfasten the line of buttons on Oswald’s shirtfront.

“I will be shortly,” Ed says huskily.

Oswald hums and allows his face to relax, gazing at Ed through half-lidded eyes. “I don’t know, Ed.” The feeling of Ed undoing his buttons is pleasingly tactile, and he hums softly as Ed’s fingers brush past his chest as they work. “I’m sure you have plenty of exciting things going on.”

“Nothing as exciting as this,” Ed says, voice dark, and he leans in to press a gentle kiss to Oswald’s lips.

Oswald smirks and preens, a little helplessly. Ed grins back at him as he finally releases Oswald from his suit jacket and waistcoat, tugging his undershirt from his pants. Then his hands goes to Oswald’s belt, and Oswald rolls his hips upward so that his hardening cock bumps Ed’s hands. Ed laughs, almost _giggles_ , as if flustered, and Oswald is stunned by how _fun_ this feels. He gives himself over to the sensation, grinning back at Ed as his hands move to Oswald’s fly and he tugs Oswald’s trousers down, a little awkwardly.

He kneels down and presses a kiss to Oswald’s arousal; but Oswald makes a disapproving noise and grips Ed’s shoulder. “Don’t cheat me the view,” Oswald says, and Ed huffs before rising to his feet, stripping himself rapidly and without any of the attention he’d given to Oswald. The shorter man sighs and leans back on the bed, resolving to ask for a striptease at another date.

Before too long Ed is kneeling again, his lips and tongue teasing Oswald’s erection, and Oswald gazes down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. Ed’s eyes meet his and Oswald feels a thrill run through him as he opens his lips and takes Oswald inside himself, never breaking their gaze for a moment.

As he begins to bob his head up and down, his lips stretched around Oswald, his gaze stays fixed on the other man until Oswald brings his hands to Ed’s hair. He buries his fingers in his hair, tugging on the strands, watching as Ed’s eyes close in bliss. “You feel so good,” Oswald mutters mindlessly.

Ed moans in response and lowers himself even further on Oswald’s cock, and it’s a shamefully short time until Oswald feels himself approaching the brink. With Ed’s full attention on him, and no need to hold back, he finds himself thrusting into Ed’s mouth eagerly. Ed makes a little whining noise in response but when Oswald tries to hold himself still, Ed sinks down around him in retaliation, letting the head of Oswald’s cock slip down into his throat. Ed’s eyes, when they meet his once again, are watering, and Oswald lets out a choked gasp at the sight.

Oswald can’t help himself and doesn’t try to: he comes in Ed’s mouth with a moan, his fingers digging into Ed’s hair, his breath rushing through his lungs. Ed’s hands are gripping his thighs, and he swallows Oswald down before lapping his length with his tongue, warm and soft.

“Get up here,” Oswald orders, out-of-breath, and Ed complies, rising up under Oswald’s grip and coming to lay against Oswald, the long line of his body hot and almost trembling with pent-up feeling. Oswald tucks Ed’s head against his shoulder, and Ed wraps his arms around Oswald’s waist, pressing himself against Oswald. The shorter man can feel Ed’s hardness, and suppresses a little smirk, combing his fingers through Ed’s hair.

Ed lets out a sigh, his breath brushing Oswald. “I don’t want to wait,” he mutters a little mutinously.

“You could start,” Oswald says a little humorously, “but that may wear down your resistance faster than mine.” Sharp pinpricks in his side as Ed tightens his grip. “That felt so good, Ed. You do indeed have a very talented mouth. So hot and wet and--”

“Stop,” Ed whines. He bites Oswald delicately on the collarbone, and Oswald tugs on Ed’s hair in response.

“I’ll stop,” Oswald allows. “Do you want to try to sleep first?”

“ _No_ ,” Ed says, disgruntled. “Ugh.”

Oswald can’t help but smile this time; he buries his grin in Ed’s hair. After a moment, Ed begins to run his hand up and down Oswald’s side urgently. Heat and wetness on his neck: Ed’s open mouth. “You really can’t wait?” Oswald asks, a little amused and proud despite himself.

“I don’t _want_ to,” Ed insists. His insistent caresses are more effective than Oswald would like to admit, and he closes his eyes with a hiss.

Ed licks his nipple, then closes his lips around it and sucks. It sends an unexpected thrill through Oswald, all the way down to his cock. “Unfair,” he gasps out. “You, Ed, you--”

“No, you,” Ed replies nonsensically. He moves to Oswald’s other nipple and repeats the actions, his hands gripping Oswald’s waist tight.

“You’re improvising,” Oswald insists. He wraps his arms around Ed’s shoulders, holding the taller man against him. He can feel his cock stiffening already, hunger stirring in his gut. “You’ve never done this before. Foul play.”

“No,” Ed repeats. He drags himself up along Oswald’s body and presses himself flush against Oswald, his cock obvious and hard. “You didn’t say--”

“Keep going,” Oswald orders.

“I want to be inside you,” Ed mutters. He's moving against Oswald, not quite thrusting, their bodies moving in tandem.

“Not yet,” Oswald tells him. “You promised me two orgasms, Eddie--” the endearment slips from his tongue without thought, and he forces himself to continue without a breath “--and I _get_ what I’ve been promised.”

Ed doesn’t see seem to notice the nickname. “I know, I know,” he pants. “But can I open you up with my tongue?”

“Yes,” Oswald hisses.

Ed slides down the length of his body quickly, and Oswald hisses as Ed brushes past his hardening but still oversensitive erection. “Fast,” Ed says, and he sounds desperate and amused all at once.

“Aren't you lucky?” Oswald responds.

Ed reaches his cock. He hovers above it, his hot breath bathing Oswald’s arousal. Oswald bites his tongue to hold back any traitorous noise from escaping. “Yes,” Ed murmurs almost inaudibly, his dark eyes meeting Oswald’s gaze unwaveringly. Oswald swallows, his heart thundering in his chest.

Finally, Ed breaks the gaze. His eyes drift down to Oswald’s spread legs, and with a tremulous sigh he sinks down and shifts Oswald’s legs up and into his shoulders.

Oswald arches his back on instinct, spreading himself wider, and he feels Ed's breath as he brings his mouth to Oswald's opening.

It feels so mindlessly good and _honest_ , and his mouth opens and he inhales shakily at the sensation of Ed’s tongue against his entrance. Ed laps at him, circling him before pressing inside him with the tip of his tongue.

Oswald finally lets out a choked moan, his fingers digging into the fabric of the duvet, his thighs trembling. Ed makes some helpless kind of noise and delves deeper with his tongue, devouring Oswald hungrily. A warm and tingling tide of feeling rushes over Oswald and he lets himself be carried away, deaf to his own gasps and moans.

Then the feeling is gone, but his whole body lights up as Ed rises up and lays against him, wrapping his arms around Oswald’s waist. He’s moving, thrusting gently, and Oswald rocks against him, the stimulation pleasingly visceral.

“Oswald, Oswald,” Ed moans into Oswald’s neck, “please, please let me…”

“Ed,” Oswald says breathlessly. “Don’t you remember--”

Ed whines loudly and clutches Oswald’s waist. “I need -- I need a minute,” he gasps desperately, lifting his hips up and away so he’s no longer pressed flush against Oswald. Oswald moans and arches his back, looking up at Ed with heavy-lidded eyes. Ed is _beautiful_ , cheeks bright pink, mouth open, lips trembling.

“I’m close, Ed,” Oswald murmurs. “Just a little more.” He rolls his hips and his cock brushes against Ed’s thigh. A _delicious_ choked gasp escapes Ed’s lips, and he leans down again to press his thigh against Oswald’s arousal.

“Please come, Oswald,” Ed says desperately. “ _Please_.”

Oswald does instantly, and it feels sharp and vicious like fireworks, like gunshots; the feeling _jolts_ him, and he convulses against Ed, clinging to the other man’s forearms. His vision fades, black spots dancing in his gaze, and sudden Ed’s lips are on his, his tongue in Oswald’s mouth.

“Oswald, I need you,” Ed says into his mouth. “ _Now_ , please, fuck.”

Oswald shuts his eyes fiercely and then opens them wide, forcing them to focus on Ed’s familiar face, cheeks pink and expression strained. “Have me.” Oswald doesn’t recognize his own voice - deep, dark, soft, confident. It’s _right_ , though; so _right_ to talk to Ed this way.

Ed makes a noise like the ghost of a sob, and moves so quickly Oswald can’t follow until he feels Ed’s cock pressing against him. Oswald tightens his grip on Ed’s forearms and drops his head back down onto the mattress, moaning brokenly as Ed finally thrusts inside of him. He isn’t as prepared this time, and it hurts a little, but it feels _good_ , feels _real_.

Oswald wraps his arms around Ed’s shoulders, and Ed presses his lips to Oswald’s temple, and they move together, Ed’s thrusts hurried and desperate. Oswald gasps out his name in between fervent curses, and Ed is inaudible, murmuring heatedly against Oswald’s skin. Whatever he’s saying, it sounds _stunning_ , passionate and hungry. And Ed finally comes, clinging to Oswald and gasping out his name in an intense rush of devotion.

~

When Oswald wakes up, he’s quick to realize he’s alone in Ed’s bed.

He blinks up at the ceiling, trying to remember exactly when he’d fallen asleep. It’s unusual for him to fall asleep outside of his own bed, especially without _planning_ on it. It must have been - he licks his lips self-consciously - the two orgasms.

The bed is comfortable, but he can’t hear Ed, and he doesn’t know how long he’s been here alone. He shifts up and throws the covers off of himself, finding his clothes folded and sitting at the foot of the bed. He’s not certain if it was meant courteously or passive-aggressively; regardless, he dresses and makes his way to the closed bedroom door.

He finds Ed in the kitchen once again, leaning against the counter, staring down at the still-dirty dishes in the sink. Oswald purses his lips, surprised that Ed hadn’t heard him approach. “Ed?” he asks finally, and the other man straightens.

The clock over Ed’s shoulder reads the small hours of the morning. “I’ll…” Oswald begins, unnerved by Ed’s lack of response, “...head out now?”

Ed still doesn’t speak or turn to face him, but nods.

Oswald hesitates, unsure why this feels so rude. Then he remembers Ed’s greeting: a kiss to the corner of his lips, and as he furrows his brow he realizes that Ed has habitually taken up kissing him as a greeting and goodbye, whenever they are alone -- and as Cat had pointed out, even sometimes when they were not.

Had he said something revealing in his sleep? Is this a subtle dismissal by Ed? Or perhaps, more terrifyingly, is it a _hint_? Does he expect Oswald to kiss _him_ , fearless and unaffected?

“Ed?” he asks finally. He takes a few steps toward Ed, entering into the kitchen. “Did you want to..?”

Ed moves like lightning, whirling around to face Oswald, and Oswald has Ed’s forearm in his grip before he’s even aware of movement. “What?” he demands, his heart racing, Ed’s eyes blazing, Ed’s teeth bared.

Oswald’s throat is constricted: he can’t force words out. Ed’s grimace melts into a strange smile, dark and grim. “No thanks, Ozzie.”

Oswald tightens his grip on Ed’s forearm, and when Ed’s other arm comes up Oswald takes a shuffling side step back, angling himself sideways against Ed. His voice is _wrong_. His eyes are _wrong_. He’s _wrong_.

Oh.

_Shit._

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Oswald says, heart thundering in his chest. His fingers are freezing. Ed’s arm tenses under his grip, the muscle hardening, and Ed brings his other hand up at a nonchalant angle.

“What do you mean?” Ed asks, taking a couple of steps closer to Oswald. Oswald mirrors his steps, keeping them at the same awkward angle, but halts when he realizes he’s being herded toward the counter. Ed grins at him and takes another step.

Oswald releases his arm with a shove that sets the taller man off-balance and takes three rapid steps back, bringing himself out of Ed’s reach. “He told me about you,” Oswald says, eyes narrowed and tracking carefully.

“Well done,” Not-Ed says, straightening.

Oswald takes another step backward; Not-Ed matches him, slowly, predatorily. Briefly, Oswald thinks: is it worth trying to run for it? Will he make it to the door quickly enough?

But Not-Ed’s eyes flicker in the direction of the exit, as if warning him off. “My legs are a lot longer, and I don’t have that unfortunate limp,” Not-Ed cautions him. “You won’t make it out. Not without incapacitating me.

“How does it feel, to know you’ve walked _right_ into the arms of your downfall?” Not-Ed continues. “Fell _asleep_ here, even.”

“And I’m certain you’re going to kill me,” Oswald says sarcastically. “As _you_ said, I was _asleep_. And he’s the one who said you don’t want to kill me.”

“Yes…” the other man says, voice trailing off into a hiss. He takes another step forward, and Oswald takes one back, bumping into one of the chairs at the dining table. Oswald’s hand flies out behind him, tracing the table, and he angles himself to skirt around its corner. Not-Ed smirks. “He was so worried what you’d think, you know. I guess he really does want your _cock_ that much, _Mr. Penguin_ , huh?”

“I don’t like you calling me that,” Oswald says slowly, continuing to back away.

“Oh, I know,” Not-Ed says. “I know _everything_ he knows.”

“What do you want,” Oswald says finally, flatly, and Not-Ed halts in his approach.

A smile crosses his face: sharp, white, and mirthless. “What do I want from you? Why-- the poor have it, the rich need it, and--”

“--if you eat it, you’ll die,” Oswald interjects sharply, recognizing the riddle. “Then what are you doing? Why bother? Even if you’re not him, you’re a _part_ of him, and you want something from me, be it my insight or my--” Oswald cuts himself off sharply, not sure what it was he intended to say, but certain that it will have revealed too much of his feelings.

“Your insight or..?” Not-Ed says, stepping still closer. One corner of the table is between them now, a slight obstacle, but nothing that will stop him. Oswald tenses, and suddenly the only thing he can think about is the knife hidden in his sleeve holster. He could have it out in a moment, ready to defend. He _longs_ for the familiar feel of the knife hilt in his grip. But -- he knows it’d be nothing more than a bluff; he doesn’t believe he’ll be able to cut Ed, even non-lethally. “...or your _acceptance_ , is it, Mr. Penguin? Your warm, caring acceptance--”

Oswald swallows, staving off the cold dread growing in his chest. “You-!”

“I’m him, Oswald,” Not-Ed interrupts, eyes wild and yet somehow focused. “I’m the same _person_.”

Oswald takes in a deep breath. Not-Ed takes a few slow, pacing steps to Oswald’s left, as if to round the table, and in response Oswald matches him to the right, keeping the table between them. Not-Ed smirks at him from across the surface.

Oswald swallows back the bitter taste in his throat. “You know everything he knows, but _he_ doesn’t know everything _you_ know,” Oswald says quietly, probingly.

Not-Ed halts, the table still between them longways, and his dark eyes narrow. Oswald inhales sharply at the sight of Ed’s familiar eyes, distorted by this strange, callous facet of him. “That’s right,” Not-Ed says, with feigned gentleness. “He doesn’t know, for example,” Not-Ed’s eyes meet his, and they _pierce_ Oswald, terrifyingly knowing, “that you’re still _in love_ with him.”

The entire world takes on a glimmery sheen, and Oswald distantly feels his mouth drop open and his eyes widen. Ed seems to blur in his vision, so omnipresent and familiar, and yet so…

When did he get so close? Oswald feels the heat of Ed’s hand on his cheek, but his eyes are so flat and strange… Ed doesn’t… Ed doesn’t look at him like this… 

“He doesn’t know what he could take from you, just by asking,” Ed murmurs, cold and dangerous.  
Oswald’s moving without thinking, Ed’s wrist in his grip and his other hand at Ed’s throat. Ed stares down at him, eyes wide and almost wild, lips twisted into a grimace or a grin, Oswald’s not sure--

_No_ , some functioning part of his mind whispers fervently. _Not Ed_!

His lips draw back in a snarl, and he tightens his grip on Not-Ed’s throat -- not enough to damage him, because this is still Ed’s body, the man he _loves_ …

Not-Ed is looking down at him gleefully, anticipation in the strange fearlessness of his expression. He doesn’t seem to care if Oswald _kills_ him. Or perhaps he knows that-- that Oswald loves Ed, and won’t harm his body… or perhaps he doesn’t care, and wants Ed to be hurt… “I think you’ve grossly overestimated your--” Oswald swallows, “-- _his_ leverage over me.”

“You’d kill your lover?” Not-Ed asks him gleefully. “You’d kill the _love_ of your _life_ , Oswald Cobblepot? What would your sainted mother say..!”

In a well-practiced move Oswald wraps his leg around one of Ed’s calves and yanks him off-balance, sending him collapsing back onto the surface of the table. He bears down on the other man, leaning over him and pressing him down onto the hard surface with his forearm. His face is right above Ed, their legs tangled together, his lips right next to the other man’s cheek, a position that brings to mind the heat of Ed’s mouth but _this isn’t_ Ed.

“ _I’ve had my fill of you underestimating me_ ,” Oswald snarls, and he feels Not-Ed’s free hand coming to grip his bicep in an act of vague defiance. “You think because I still love him, I wouldn’t be able to fight back? Because I can. And I _will_ , if necessary.”

“Oh, _Ozzie_ ,” says the other man. “You won’t hurt me if it’ll hurt him.”

A familiar sick feeling wells up in him, that hungry high of _vengeance_ and _violence_. He’s _burning_ suddenly, rage and hate and he wants to _kill_ Ed for the smug look on his face. “Don’t you remember who I am?” Oswald demands, blood thrumming in his veins. “Don’t you know what I can _do_ to you? Pain doesn’t always cause _lasting damage_ , you--”

“You wanna make me scream?” Ed asks, lips twisted into a skull-like grin, eyes empty and sharp. “You wanna take me apart?”

Oswald bears down on the other man, putting pressure on his throat. He feels Ed swallow under his forearm, eyes squinting with the pain.

_Isabelle’s car._

What?

_Ed’s grip on his tie, half-strangling him._

Why--

_The cruel, flat gaze._

No.

_No._

Oswald flings himself backward, letting out a choked gasp. He stumbles over his own feet but manages to put a yard or so between them, staring at the other man with wide, almost unseeing eyes. Not-Ed rises up onto his elbows, looking disgruntled. “Wh--”

“I’m sorry,” Oswald says.

“What?” Not-Ed demands.

“I’m so sorry,” Oswald says.

Not-Ed stares at him, uncomprehending.

A sob catches in Oswald’s throat, and he covers his mouth with his hand. All this time, he’s been insisting and insisting he loves Ed, but has he only fooled himself once again? Is he incapable of love? Was Ed _right_ all those years ago? That Oswald will _never_ change?

But he stopped himself. He _stopped_. He _has_ changed…

… _hasn’t he_?

“Oh come _on_ ,” comes a derisive voice. “Are you going to start crying now?”

Oswald swallows and forces himself to calm. “Do you-- what,” Oswald says. Anger, bitterness, familiar old regret. “That’s what you think of me, isn’t it? You and him both?”

Not-Ed lolls his head back, exposing his neck. “What?” he asks in a breathy voice, and if Oswald didn’t know Ed so well he’d think it was genuine.

Oswald bares his teeth. “Trying to distract me with that silly display? Just because I love him doesn’t mean I lost my _brain_.”

Not-Ed’s neck straightens, and his gaze clears, sharpening. “What, then?” he says grimly, distinctly, and an involuntary shiver passes down Oswald’s spine.

“You think that I… ‘want to make you scream’?” Oswald asks, an edge to his voice. “What were you doing, there? Trying to make me kill you?”

Not-Ed watches him, coldly. After a moment he crosses his arms. “Tell me, Oswald Cobblepot. Why did you fall in love with him? Do you even remember?”

“We’ve gone over this,” Oswald snaps. “I admit I was selfish. I learned from him as much as he learned from me; but I _did_ \--” he inhales sharply, “-- _do_ love him.”

“And _why_?” Not-Ed pursues. “Why _him_? Because he was _nice_ to you?”

“That was what made me _appreciate_ him, but I --” Oswald clenches his hands into fists. With determination, he resumes: “I love him because of his own brilliance, his own character, his own--”

“He’s a whining little crybaby,” Not-Ed interjects gleefully, “and--”

“-- _don’t_ \--"

“--you _know_ something’s wrong, don’t you?” Not-Ed continues, and Oswald freezes, eyes widening. “Something he won’t tell you?”

Oswald swallows harshly.

Not-Ed shuffles back to lean against the edge of the table, apparently at ease, crossing his legs at the ankle. He speaks quietly, viciously, intently. “Playing out the same old hackneyed story gets old. I’m _sick_ of it, of his _weakness_.”

Despite himself, Oswald takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. “What story?” Oswald asks softly, but it’s too late: Not-Ed’s head jerks up and his eyes narrow, spell broken.

“No,” Not-Ed says sharply, but doesn’t move. “It’s a secret.” Then the corners of his eyes crinkle, his lips upturned. It’s not a smile - not a _real_ one, anyway. “You already know. He has a _lot_ of secrets, Ozzie.”

Oswald feels his upper lip curling back from his teeth.

“I’d know; I’m one of them,” Not-Ed mutters. Then he straightens and his eyes pierce Oswald. “Tell me. Prove to me that you know what I’m talking about.”

Oswald knows. But will it overplay his hand to tell him? Will he share it with the other Ed?

What does it matter if he does? The damn man still won’t say anything, Oswald knows, unless Oswald pries it out of him. Oswald heaves a sigh. “Why did it take nearly a month for him to enact his plan against Gordon and the others? Why was there no injection site for the etizolam, though he claimed he received an injection? And why is the Joker after him?”

“Yeah, you got it,” Not-Ed says, bobbing his head, amused. “To be a fly on the wall during that conversation… oh, right! I will be. Won’t _that_ be a treat.”

“Can’t you tell me more?” Oswald asks. “Don’t you want me to help him?”

“ _No_ ,” Not-Ed snarls. “It’s a _secret_ , you nosey little--” He cuts himself off abruptly, lifting a hand to his forehead and sighing loudly. “You are _aggravating_ ,” he bites out after a moment, and Oswald finds himself grimacing again.

Not-Ed clenches his hands into fists and releases them, then does it again. He shuts his eyes and exhales heavily through his nose before meeting Oswald’s eyes again, determinedly. “Don’t forget, Oswald, _I’m_ the one who knows how you feel. His pathological insecurity gets in the way and he’s unable to recognize that look in your eyes. But even if he did…” he trails off and shrugs, flippantly. “I don’t _know_ what he’d do _then_.”

“Are you…” Oswald bites his lip. “...warning me away?”

With a snort, Not-Ed rolls his eyes. “If I was going to do _that_ , I would’ve tried traumatizing you upon waking. Genius,” he mutters derisively. “Much more efficient to make you loathe the _sight_ of him.”

“Then what do you _want_ from me?” Oswald demands, at a loss.

“I told you,” Not-Ed snaps, and it sounds like a curse. “The poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it, you’ll die.”

Oswald feels like tearing his hair out. All _this_ and the man won’t give him a damn _answer_. They’ve gone around and around and he won’t let him _leave_ but he-- _Oh_.

“What do you _need_ from me?” Oswald asks, voice softening on instinct, the way he would’ve spoken to _his_ Ed - an accidental misstep.

Not-Ed rears back, his legs jerking underneath his frame and his teeth baring. “ _Don’t talk to me like that_ ,” he snarls. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“I apologize!” Oswald interjects. “It was not my intention to upset you!”

It’s too late; whatever they had been close to; whatever it was that had been hovering in the air between them, unnamed and unacknowledged -- it’s gone. Not-Ed stares at him, wary and wild like a trapped animal. Oswald swallows harshly, casting about for some way to assuage the other man’s disquiet.

“Don’t tell him what we talked about,” Not-Ed says before Oswald can think of what to say.

“Wh--”

Not-Ed leans forward, eyes glinting like the edge of a steel knife. “If you do, I’ll tell him you _love_ him.”

Oswald feels his own face blanche, and he bares his teeth instinctively. “Fine.”

And Ed collapses; if Oswald hadn’t leapt forward and caught him around the waist, he might have hit his head and done serious damage. “Damn it,” Oswald hisses; at this angle he can’t hold Ed, his knee is already giving out - they tumble to the floor together in a mess of limbs.

“Oswald?” a voice says in his ear, and there are suddenly wild hands clinging to him. “What-- where am I? I didn’t--”

“You had an episode,” Oswald say, trying to sound soothing, but Ed jerks in his arms more fiercely and Oswald finds himself falling backward as he’s dislodged from Ed’s grip. The impact with the floor isn’t bad, but he still grimaces with frustration, shuffling to a seated position and bringing a hand up to the back of his head.

“Oh-- dear, Oswald, I--”

“I’m fine!” Oswald interjects, holding his hand up. He finally looks up to see Ed’s distraught face, the picture of appalled horror, and he forces a smile onto his face. “I’m fine,” he repeats, quieter.

“Are you okay? Did he do anything?” Ed demands, shuffling onto his knees and clinging to the edge of the table to bring himself up to his feet. “Oswald, I-- I cannot apologize _enough_ \--”

“Sit down,” Oswald interrupts forcefully. “Sit down at the table, Ed; you look like you’re going to pass out.” His face is white as a sheet and sweat stands out on his forehead. His hands are wringing together compulsively, nonstop, and Oswald grimaces at the sight. “I promise I’m fine.”

“What did he want?” Ed demands.

“ _Sit_ ,” Oswald orders, and Ed jumps as if to attention.

“Right,” he says after a moment, dazed, and pulls out one of the dining room chairs to sit. Oswald sighs in relief and shuts his eyes, trying to regain his composure.

“I don’t really know,” Oswald says after a moment. “He wouldn’t tell me what he wanted.” Technically not a lie.

Ed swallows audibly. “He didn’t…” he trails off; it seems like he can’t bring himself to say whatever he’s thinking.

“...didn’t?” Oswald asks.

Ed shrugs helplessly and tugs his glasses off, rubbing at the lenses with the hem of his shirt.

Seeing Ed like that, Oswald can’t help himself; he rises to his knees and then clambers up ungracefully to his feet. He hears the leg of Ed’s chair squeak against the floor, but holds his hand to halt his movement. “I’m fine,” Oswald assures him, but when he glances up to see Ed’s fearful face, he realizes that Ed had perhaps been looking more for his own reassurance.

Oswald makes his uncomfortable way over to Ed and without pausing to allow himself doubt, he wraps his arms around his shoulders and rests his cheek on top of Ed’s head. Ed clings to him immediately, and it’s the familiar warm grip. Oswald inhales deeply, taking in Ed’s familiar scent, relieved that there’s no lingering fear or hatred. “It was strange,” Oswald says quietly, “but it’s okay. Nothing bad happened.”

Ed doesn’t respond, but clings to him for long silent breaths. Then, barely audible: “Would you tell me if something did?”

Oswald buries his nose into Ed’s hair. “It depends,” he says honestly. “But nothing did. He tried to provoke me, like you said, but he didn’t try to physically harm me.”

He feels Ed almost relax into his embrace, his face pressing into Oswald’s shoulder. After endless moments, he mutters: “Why were you so close?”

“Hmm?”

“When I fell.”

Oswald strokes his hand over Ed’s shoulder in a broad pass. “He implied he was leaving, and you began to fall. I jumped forward to catch you, and you were out for a moment or two before you regained consciousness.”

“Okay,” Ed says softly, and Oswald senses he’s not fully reassured. But Oswald doesn’t know what to _say_. There’s nothing else that will convince him, is there? He can’t give any details from their encounter.

“Okay,” Oswald says back.

Several hours pass before Oswald feels ready to leave. And when he’s standing at the door, Ed changed into a pair of comfy-looking pajamas, hair mussed and expression sleepy, he remembers his earlier thoughts.

And before Ed can lean down to kiss him goodbye, he wraps his hand around the nape of Ed’s neck and drags him down for a soft kiss. He hears the other version of Ed whispering in his ear when he does so; hears _“If he knew, I don’t know what he’d do then.”_

But when he pulls away, Ed’s face has split into a sweet smile, the first he’d managed since the switch. And in that moment, Oswald finds the risk of discovery more than worth the heartwarming sight.


	11. You Are, Aren't You?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back~~~!
> 
> Much thanks to Blue Sonata in the comments, who inspired the leg massage scene.
> 
> **WARNING: This chapter references an abusive relationship between the Joker and Harley Quinn. Nothing specific, and nothing happens in the narrative.**
> 
> ~R

Oswald makes his way back inside the club, niggling foreboding still plaguing him. He wishes he’d stayed, is glad he left--wishes, most of all, that the other Ed just didn’t _exist_ , that their lives could be simple once again…

But...Ed had said...the other version was around, even back then. This isn’t _new_. This isn’t because he tried to kill Oswald. This isn’t because of their broken-apart friendship. This isn’t because of anything either of them did or didn’t do.

This is Ed. Ed has _never_ been able to escape this. And neither should Oswald. Not if he loves Ed as he claims to--as he _does_. To ignore it would be callous, cruel.

Piercing through his clouded musings is Ivy’s concerned, lilting voice mid-sentence: “--ink you should stop?”

“Yeah, sure, _stop_ ,” Cat says, voice trembling with what sounds like suppressed anger, familiar cutting cynicism in her tone. “ _That’ll_ fix everything, huh, Ivy?”

Oswald halts, curious. He hears the sound of displaced air and then of shattering glass--not enough to truly _worry_ him, but... He narrows his eyes--did the heist go _that_ badly?

“It’ll at least save the glassware,” Ivy mutters.

He hears the sound of Cat laughing derisively. “Hey, Ivy?”

“Yeah?”

“Take it from me,” Cat says darkly. “You can’t trust a man.”

Oswald’s lip twitches in amusement, and he begins to walk toward them again, his steps as light as he can make them. Luckily they seem distracted enough by their conversation not to hear his approach. As he rounds the corner, he sees Ivy first, seated on one of the couches in the corner with Fern curled in her lap. Cat is posed on _top_ of the bar counter, whip clutched in her hand, shattered glass littering the surface of the counter and the surrounding stools. Oswald feels his eyebrows rise as Cat unfurls her whip once again and knocks an entire line of tumblers from their shelf. They fall with a discordant cacophony, and Oswald winces automatically, lifting his free hand to his head as if to ward off the noise.

“Uh...okay?” Ivy laughs nervously, petting Fern a little too anxiously; the cat’s ears lay flat against her skull. “Cat? Are you, um..?”

“Don’t listen to me,” she says sourly, flicking the tail end of her whip back into her grip. “But also, _don’t date a man_. It’s not worth it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Ivy says. “So… thanks?”

“This isn’t a good look on you,” Oswald informs Cat mercilessly as he sweeps toward them, allowing his footfalls to echo through the room. They both look up at him as one, startled; he hides his smirk.

“Hey, Oswald?” Cat says, jumping onto one of the barstools and crouching there, disconcertingly poised for another leap. “ _Look who’s talking_. Remind me what _you_ did last time you had _romantic problems_ , again?”

Oswald scowls at her. “That is out of line.”

“Out of--out of--” Cat spits. As he watches, she tenses all over, alarmingly, and he fears he’s miscalculated. “Oh, you are _such_ a hypocrite,” she snaps finally. “Everyone deserves criticism except for you, Mr. Perfect, yeah?”

Oswald’s brow furrows. “I didn’t say _that_ \--”

“Because _you’re_ such a shining example of ‘how to date right’, Oswald? _Seriously_?”

“That’s enough!” Oswald interrupts hastily. “I concede.”

“ _Men_ ,” Cat says, and whirls on her heel to point at Ivy, half-rising from her crouch. “They’re all worthless. This guy especially.”

“I mean, I guess so,” Ivy says, “but, like, maybe less ‘worthless’ and more like ‘terrible’ or something?”

“All right, _thank_ you,” Oswald interjects. “I take it something happened with the boy billionaire?” Oswald asks, hoping to redirect the conversation away from dangerous secrets--with the way she is now, Cat may very well blurt out all the details to his and Edward’s...arrangement, and he can’t think of a worse way for Ivy to discover it. He continues toward them, walking to Ivy rather than Cat, planning on at least distracting Ivy should Cat become too _elucidating_ with regards to Oswald’s current romantic status.

“ _Oh_ ,” Cat says ominously. “You do _not_ want to know. I promise you _that_.”

“What could be that _bad_?” Ivy hisses to Oswald as he reaches her side. He pats her knee, awkwardly, as he sits, and Fern attacks his hand with her claws before he hastily pulls it away.

“Cat,” Oswald says, as calmly and seriously as he can manage. Cat shifts on her feet a little and eyes him, uncertainly. “Do you need me to do something?”

“Like…to him?” she begins, and at his affirmative nod she bursts into peals of laughter, letting the hand with the whip fall by her side and lifting the other to bury it in her curls. “I’d like to see you _try_.” Oswald frowns, annoyed and a little confused--she _teases_ him for sentimentality, but she doesn’t usually outright _ridicule_ him for offering assistance. “Oh, god, Oswald, but seriously, _don’t_ ,” she adds hastily, once she’s regained her breath. “Really. Don’t.”

Oswald scowls and reaches out to stroke Fern’s head. “How’d the heist go?” Oswald asks, trying to redirect her once again. “I’m assuming it was a heist.”

Cat gives him a narrow-eyed glare but finally hops down from the barstool, beginning to roll her whip up. “We were _thwarted_ ,” Cat begins, irritated, “and wouldn’t you know it--wouldn’t you--” she breaks off abruptly and allows her hands to fall by her sides. As Oswald watches, her shoulders rise slowly and then fall, as she takes in a deep breath. “I need to go to sleep. Before I say something I’ll regret,” she concludes, gaze still fixed on the floor.

“Cat--”

“I’m taking the suite, Oswald, and for god’s sake don’t meet my eyes tomorrow morning if you happen to see me going.” She looks up at him finally, her eyes blazing too-knowingly. “I _guarantee_ I’ll tear your head off with really accurate attacks on your character.”

He licks his lip, uncertainly. “Very well,” he says finally, and she nods, waving her hand at him dismissively.

“Good night, Oswald, Ivy. See you...later.” And with that she turns on her heel and leaves.

The two of them watch her go, and a few awkward moments pass before Ivy manages to speak, facing Oswald with worry in her eyes. “I’ve never seen her like that.”

Oswald brings his hand to his chin. “Hopefully when she wakes up she’ll feel better?” he suggests, but he doesn’t have much experience in this area. “She doesn’t seem like she actually wants to kill him,” Oswald continues thoughtfully. “It’s not something _straightforward_ , then.”

“Ozzie,” Ivy says, rolling her eyes. “You’re the only one who thinks going from dating someone to literally wanting to murder them is normal. Sorry,” she adds quickly. “But it’s not like--”

“Ivy,” Oswald interrupts. He has a feeling she’s worried about upsetting him, but she’s done rather the opposite inadvertently. “It’s probably more common than you’d think; in Gotham, anyway. Barbara and Tabitha had a falling out, if I remember correctly--Barbara and Jim--perhaps I’m just thinking of Barbara,” Oswald admits, furrowing his brow. Then he snaps his fingers, triumphantly. “Joker and that girl, Harley Quinn--”

“That’s _not_ the same,” Ivy snaps.

Oswald blinks. When he turns his gaze on her, her expression is _dark_ , and for one of the first times ever, he truly sees something of his own _wrath_ in her.

“It’s not?” he asks quietly. Fern shifts uneasily in Ivy’s lap. “Why?” Oswald pursues.

Ivy lifts her hands away from Fern and turns them over, staring at her own palms. Oswald looks at them too, but there’s nothing notable--just the familiar faint crisscrossing scars, from the work she does with her plants. Ivy takes in a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling again before she speaks. “He hurts her.”

Oswald narrows his eyes, his gaze roving over Ivy’s face. “I didn’t know you knew them,” he says finally, and Ivy’s cheeks flush nervously.

“Well, it’s not like I _hang out_ with them or anything, I just…” she continues, voice reluctant. “I just _sort of_ know them.”

Oswald waits in silence, watching her closely. Eventually she shifts in her seat, picking up Fern and putting her on Oswald’s lap before pulling her legs onto the couch and wrapping her arms around them protectively. “She just got transferred to Arkham,” Ivy says quietly.

“ _What_?”

“I went to see her at the GCPD last night,” Ivy tells him. “They got approval to transfer her to Arkham. Later today. Early in the morning.” She buries her face in her knees, and her long hair cascades down, blocking his view of her expression.

“ _Ivy_ \--” Oswald begins, concern burrowing into his heart. “You went to _see_ her?”

“ _Legally_ ,” she says, voice muffled but aggravated. “With, like, a visitor’s pass and everything. I’m not a _kid_ anymore, Oswald; I can go to the _police station_.”

“You _shouldn’t_ ,” Oswald mutters darkly. “Why--”

Ivy lifts her head up and meets Oswald’s eyes defiantly. “I _like_ her, okay?” she snaps, cheeks bright pink. “And it’s _not_ my imagination. He _hurts_ her.”

Oswald takes in a deep breath, meeting Ivy’s eyes unerringly. She doesn’t back down, either; her mouth is downturned in a little frustrated moue and her eyebrows are furrowed.

“I don’t,” Oswald says slowly, “doubt that, necessarily. But, Ivy--” he licks his lip, unsure, “--I wouldn’t be so quick to trust _her_ intentions, either. How well do you _know_ her?”

“Why does that matter?” Ivy demands. Her eyes are sparkling in their depths, now: _tears_. Oswald forces down the instinctive desire to end the conversation right now in response. And then she says, voice biting and a little bitter: “How well did you know _the Riddler_ before he _shot_ you?”

Oswald stiffens, eyes widening with shock. Ivy stares at him, expression almost confused, as if she hadn’t known what she was going to say and is just as surprised as him.

Oswald swallows harshly against the sudden lump in his throat, lifting his hand to cover his mouth. “Ivy…”

“Sorry,” she mutters, looking down at her hands, sounding a little ashamed. The room is silent except for their quiet breaths, and Oswald concentrates on keeping himself calm. She doesn’t--she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, _can’t_ know the meaning of her words.

Then she straightens abruptly, squaring her shoulders, and facing him with an almost-glare: “No, I’m--I’m _not_ sorry.” She clenches her hands into fists. “It’s not fair of you to--to say that to me, and you’re the one who’s always with him, and he--Oswald, it’s not fair,” she finishes finally, voice nervous but determined. “You _are_ a hypocrite.”

Oswald’s heart is pounding in his throat and the lump is thick and choking. Ed, yes, Ed and the other Ed--she’s right. He is a total hypocrite. But if she--if she…

He drags the hand down his face, wishing he could wipe away _everything_. Wishing he could erase all the _pain_ from this terrible, wonderful city: let Ivy have her Harley, and have Ed as his own, whole and unburdened...he lets out a shaky breath.

“Maybe I am,” he says finally, voice ragged. “But it’s...I just don’t want you to be _hurt_.”

“Well, thanks,” she responds tearfully, “but _I_ don’t want _you_ to be hurt, either.”

Uncanny silence falls over the two of them. Oswald reaches out with a tellingly shaky hand to stroke Fern, trying to calm her; she’s digging her claws into his leg, ears still flat against her skull.

“We’re at an impasse, then,” Oswald says softly.

“You can’t--you can’t stop me from seeing her.”

“At _Arkham_?” Oswald demands, incredulously. “Ivy, you--”

“I know you hate it there, but it’s not like _I_ have to spend all my life avoiding it,” she snaps, her tone undercut by the shakiness of her voice. “You can’t stop me.”

Fern stirs nervously in Oswald’s lap; he was petting her a little too firmly and he stops, lifting his hand up and clenching it into a fist, abstractly. “No, I won’t try,” Oswald says finally. “If you’ll be _responsible_ about it. Just--” he breaks off abruptly, bringing his hand up to his forehead and brushing his hair back restlessly, his eyes falling shut, “--if you’re on the Joker’s radar, Ivy, you should have _told_ me. He’s _not_ someone to take lightly.”

“He doesn’t pay attention to me,” Ivy tells him, with naive certitude.

Oswald opens his eyes and fixes her with his gaze. “Yes, he does,” Oswald says. “He knows _exactly_ what you’re capable of. Don’t for a _moment_ think you’ve managed to fool him, or even _I_ may not be able to save you.”

She blinks her luminous eyes at him, mouth gaping open slightly.

“Ivy,” Oswald says, voice rough. “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to _prepare_ you.”

She swallows visibly, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. “Okay,” she whispers, and Oswald nods faintly.

They sit in silence for a few more minutes. Fern shifts in Oswald’s lap, her hind leg digging into his thigh.

“So you have a--a crush, is it?” Oswald finally asks with attempted levity, but his voice is still raspy.

“Yeah,” Ivy says quietly. “Yeah, I…I really like her, Ozzie.”

“Well,” Oswald says, forcing a smile despite the tears he feels hiding in his eyes. “I’m glad.” He pats her knee, gently. She looks down, her red hair falling in a cascade and hiding her face from view. Oswald isn’t surprised when she suddenly leans into his side and buries her face against his shoulder. She’s still for a moment, then her form shivers and she heaves a sob. He brings his hand up to rub her shoulder comfortingly as she shudders and clasps her hand over her mouth.

“I know,” he tells her softly. “I know.”

~

“Oswald?”

Oswald looks up from his desk, and there’s Ed standing in the doorway of his office. He blinks, surprised; ever since his discussion with Ivy he’s felt off-kilter, and for a moment he’s not certain where he _is_ , let alone if he was expecting the other man or not.

“Ed?” he says finally, and Ed straightens.

“Are you busy?” he asks.

“No, I…” Oswald looks down at his desk, unsure what exactly he was working on. It can’t be _that_ important. “No, I’m not,” he says finally, glancing back up.

His breath catches as he looks up this time: Ed is grinning, and instinctive cold panic floods Oswald, the hairs on the back of his neck rising, sweat beading on his forehead. _Ed_ smiles _sometimes_ , he tells himself forcefully. _It’s still him_.

_Why_ is he suddenly so afraid? He was fine when he left last night! Is it normal for the fear to have lingered? Would it be stranger if it _didn’t_?

Oswald bites his tongue. The problem is…the problem is…he can’t let Ed realize he’s afraid. Ed had been _in tears_ , insisting that he was changed, and Oswald had been the one reassuring him he was still the same. If Oswald changes his behavior around Ed now, then that would be just as bad as telling him something was wrong, and perhaps worse.

And he might even realize just _why_ Oswald is risking this, despite his fear. Especially since Oswald now knows that Ed’s alter is aware.

So how can he reassure himself subtly?

Stepping inside the office and pulling the door shut behind him, Ed says: “I wanted to see you,” with a little lilt to his voice. It’s strangely endearing, the bald-faced honesty (if it _is_ that), and Oswald smiles despite the turmoil in his gut.

He can’t _quiz_ Ed; the alter knows everything he knows. There’s no fact or event that Oswald would be able to reference that he doesn’t know about. The difference is in _personality_. He had been...he hadn’t seemed like the best liar, but then, Ed had never been a good one. (Except those times Oswald had _wanted_ to believe.)

The alter was _angry_ , though. He didn’t like it when Oswald quizzed him for details, and he’d as much as _said_ he wouldn’t help Oswald with any of the “secrets”. Therein lays the solution.

“I was meaning to ask you,” Oswald says, affecting casualness, shuffling some of the paperwork on his desk. “Did you try anything other than the etizolam?”

“What?”

“It seemed like that had some negative side effects for you. Have you tried anything else?” Oswald repeats, and then bites his tongue. Will Ed call him on the bluff?

“Yes, I…” Ed narrows his eyes at him. “...a few. But I haven’t had...long term success.”

Oswald is already convinced--the other wouldn’t have waited this long to disagree with him, either telling him to stop prying or engaging in an actual fight. Ed was caught off-guard, but his first instinct was explanation, not anger. And moreover, he’s as much as admitted the etizolam was intentional.

“Were those other options actually approved by the FDA?” Oswald pries, but he can read the answer in Ed’s abrupt frown. “That may have been the issue,” Oswald suggests.

“Oswald, I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Ed says in a rush.

Oswald stiffens, stifling the instant guilt. And he’d been attempting to _avoid_ making Ed feel ostracized for this. He lost sight of that in his attempt to ferret out the truth. “I apologize, Ed,” he says, allowing the stack of paperwork to fall to the surface of his desk. “I shouldn’t...quiz you about it.”

When Ed smiles at him, a little strained but still welcoming, Oswald feels like an utter fraud. Ed circles Oswald’s desk and then he’s standing between it and Oswald’s knees, towering over him until he eases onto the edge of the desk. Ed stretches his legs out, between Oswald’s, and gazes down at him with eyes that are a little too shuttered to appear calm.

Without thinking, Oswald reaches out and captures Ed’s left hand with his wrist, looping their fingers together loosely. “It was not my intention to upset you.”

Ed shrugs, a little jerkily. “It’s fine.”

They sit together in silence for a few moments, then Ed pulls their entwined hands up to his lips, pressing a featherlight kiss to the back of Oswald’s palm. Oswald’s inhale shudders through him, and he shuts his eyes.

“Oswald?” Edward murmurs against his hand.

His eyes open slowly, and the tableau before him is intoxicating: Ed is poised with Oswald’s hand held to his lips, his eyes boring into Oswald’s, his brows drawn faintly together.

“Yes?” Oswald breathes.

Edward opens his lip and presses his hot tongue to Oswald’s skin, dragging it slowly down the back of his hand and to his wrist--and then he bares his teeth, nipping at Oswald’s wristbone and sending a shudder through Oswald’s spine.

“Take me?”

Oswald brings his free hand to Ed’s thigh. “Here?” Oswald asks, and as he thinks he can _see_ Ed’s pupils widening.

“Yes.”

Oswald scoots forward in his seat a little; Ed draws his lips over Oswald’s hand again, and, parting his lips and darting out his tongue, takes Oswald’s pinky into his mouth. Oswald inhales sharply and reaches out with his left hand to awkwardly unfasten Ed’s fly. Underneath his hand he can feel Ed hardening, and Ed parts his thighs, bumping them against Oswald’s legs.

“Lift up for me?” Oswald asks, and Ed rises enough so that Oswald can tug his trousers down around his thighs. Without pausing or thinking Oswald immediately leans in and presses kiss to the head of Ed’s erection. Ed jerks up and releases his finger, and Oswald pulls his head away, darting his tongue out to taste the saltiness on his lips.

“Turn over,” Oswald orders quietly, and Ed does so immediately, flailing a little as he gets trapped in his own trouser legs. Oswald steadies him with a grip on his waist, and then Ed drops his elbows to the desktop and bows his head, panting heavily.

His skin is hot underneath Oswald’s hand, and he strokes up and down Ed’s side, edging underneath the hem of his shirt and back down. “Very nice,” Oswald tells him, and Ed whines in response.

Oswald licks his thumb, wetting it, and uses his other hand to part Ed’s cheeks and press his thumb to Ed’s entrance. Ed lets out a quiet little gasp and then sinks down on his elbows, pushing back against Oswald’s hand.

“Ed?” Oswald asks softly. He slips the tip of his thumb inside Ed and _wants_.

“Mmhm?”

“Would you like me to rim you?”

“ _Yes_.”

Without hesitating, Oswald parts his lips and leans in, lapping over Ed’s entrance and relishing the way Ed twitches and gasps underneath him. Oswald draws back a little and bites his lip, and Edward squirms against him desperately. Wrapping his arm around Ed’s waist to hold him, Oswald leans back in and licks Ed again, and again, filled with a smug and vaguely desperate excitement at the way Ed trembles against him and gasps as if desperate for air.

When he presses his tongue _inside_ Ed, Ed lets out a frantic moan and Oswald brings his fingers to Ed’s rim, tracing him and then pressing inside, stretching him out. Ed opens easily, under his tongue and fingers, and before long the strain at his trousers is too much and Oswald releases Ed, rising to his feet and unfastening his own fly.

He can just see Ed’s face over the other man’s shoulder; his cheek is pressed to the surface of Oswald’s desk, his panting breaths fogging the polished surface, his eyes shut and mouth open. A moan wells up in Oswald’s chest and he leans over him, dropping his left hand to the desk beside Ed.

Oswald lines himself up against Ed’s entrance as Ed begins to squirm, frustrated with the lack of stimulation, and presses inside as Ed murmurs: “ _Now_ , Oswald.”

Oswald pushes inside him, slowly, thoroughly, and Ed’s back bows and his brow creases, pants of want on his lips. And when Oswald is fully inside him, he drops his right hand on the desktop on the other side of Ed and leans over him, until his face reaches Ed’s clothed shoulder.

“You look incredible like this, Ed,” Oswald mutters, “spread out on my desk. But you know that, don’t you?”

Ed lets out a high-pitched whine.

Oswald pulls himself out of Ed slowly, prolonging the sensation and watching with a possessive joy and Ed squirms, frustrated, underneath him, pressing back against Oswald as if to keep him there.

“Ed,” Oswald says, admonishing. “Let me take care of it.”

Ed practically growls and drops his weight onto his elbows petulantly, nuzzling his face against the surface of Oswald’s desk as if for some form of relief.

“That’s it,” Oswald agrees, and when he thrusts back inside Ed, Ed mutters a curse and his hands scrabble at the desktop.

Oswald builds up a pattern of slow thrusts that has Ed moaning brokenly, panting in a way that has his whole body trembling and shuddering. Oswald leans down until his chest is pressed flush against Ed’s back and rests his head on Ed’s shoulder blade, helpless to stop the flow of muttered affirmations from his lips: “You’re doing so well, Ed, you feel amazing, you feel so good underneath me--” and he’s not sure if Ed can hear him or not but he can’t stop himself anyway.

Ed tightens around Oswald and shakes as he comes, making a noise like a sob and reaching back with one hand to catch Oswald’s forearm in a frantic grasp. “ _Oswald_ ,” Ed moans, “come inside me.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before Oswald does, Ed’s contented groan and half-formed chuckle spurring him on. He leans his forehead onto Ed’s shoulder, panting as he comes down from his high, Ed waiting beneath him for Oswald to pull out.

When he does he quickly fastens his own trousers before he wraps his arms around Ed from behind, doing the same for him. Ed’s hands scrabble a little on the desktop as he pushes himself back up to a standing position, and Oswald keeps his arms looped around his waist as he shuffles back and allows himself to tumble into his desk chair, dragging Ed down with him. Ed lets out a little yelp as they fall but when he lands in Oswald’s lap he squirms to the side, draping his legs over one of the arms of the chair and sitting on Oswald’s lap sideways.

Before Oswald can speak, Ed tucks his face into Oswald’s shoulder and wraps his arms loosely around Oswald’s torso. His breathing evens out quickly, and Oswald is enjoying it _far_ too much to suggest he get up. He strokes a hand over Ed’s back, absently, his gaze on Ed’s arms, resting against Oswald’s abdomen. He’s still got Oswald’s _come_ inside of him, but he seems content to rest peacefully.

Oswald’s not sure how long they sit in silence like that, but eventually Ed stirs a little, and his breathing changes tempo enough to announce that he’s risen from his doze. And while part of Oswald wants nothing more than to sit in silence with him, in some respect he feels he’s come to value Ed’s advice, and at this moment, he feels he might need it.

“I’m worried about Ivy,” Oswald says softly, attempting not to break the silence too harshly. “She’s--well, she…”

Ed sighs softly into Oswald’s ear, and shifts in his lap in a way that causes Oswald to wince, vaguely. “She’s gotten herself involved with Harley Quinn,” Oswald continues, and Ed freezes tellingly before resuming his squirming.

Oswald shuts his eyes. It’s so obvious that Ed is hiding something, but _what_? “She’s in Arkham now, and Ivy keeps visiting her,” Oswald continues, affecting obliviousness. He strokes his hand over Ed’s shoulder and tugs him a little closer, holds his waist a little tighter. “I’m worried that she may have brought herself to the Joker’s attention.”

“No,” Ed disagrees immediately, then pauses. “I’m sure he knows that doing something would draw your ire,” he finishes finally, and Oswald frowns pensively.

“Even if he regards me as an equal adversary,” Oswald says, “when has _rationality_ ever stopped the _Joker_?”

Ed inhales sharply. His arms snake out to circle Oswald’s waist and then he shifts, tugging until Oswald rolls to the side, so that they’re both leaning against the back of Oswald’s chair, faces inches apart. Ed’s eyes dart across Oswald’s expression searchingly. “Nothing is going to happen to her,” Ed whispers, but the determination in Ed’s voice only serves to make Oswald more uneasy.

_Why would Ed be determined unless there was a reason to be afraid?_

_And one that he_ knows _about._

“Okay,” Oswald breathes finally, and smiles at Ed, unconvincingly.

Ed bites his lip and then leans in, tucking his face into the crook of Oswald’s neck and letting out a long and shaky sigh by his ear. Oswald lifts his hand and buries it in Ed’s hair, enjoying the way the soft, ungelled curls seem to cling to his fingers, as if desperate to hold him there.

“Oswald,” Ed murmurs after a moment.

“Yes?”

“Maybe...you shouldn’t…”

Oswald tilts his head but Ed dips his own further, so he’s still angled away from Oswald. “Yes?” Oswald repeats.

Ed’s hand grips Oswald’s waist tighter. “Maybe you shouldn’t leave the Iceberg.”

Dumbfounded, Oswald blinks a few times before managing: “What, _ever_?”

“Well, no,” Ed mutters after a pause. “Just for a little while.”

“For a little while,” Oswald repeats dully. He feels strangely cold inside. This...he can’t even _begin_ to process all of the implications of _this_. Is Ed trying to...protect him? Or to remove his influence from whatever battle is taking place between him and the Joker? What?

He can’t _stay_ like this, curled up with Ed in his chair, feeling the other’s soft, warm breaths against his ear--he _can’t_ , he _can’t_. It’s too much. It’s not _fair_. He disentangles himself from Ed quickly, shifting Ed’s weight off of his lap, ignoring the other man’s quiet yelp of protest as he rises to his feet and abruptly gasps.

“Oswald?”

Oswald hisses through his teeth and shifts his stance, both arms hovering in the air as if to maintain his balance; there’s a sharp pain running up his side and back. _Damn it_ ; as good as the thought had been, as good as the _sex_ had been, it was a stupid idea to have Ed on his desk like that.

“Are you all right?”

Oswald looks up to see Ed standing by his elbow, nervously, his hand hovering by Oswald’s arm as if ready to catch him. Oswald inhales deeply through his nose, attempting to dispel the black spots dancing at the corners of his vision.

“Just my leg,” he says dismissively, once he can manage it. “I’m fine.”

Ed’s brow furrows. “Are you sure? I can…” he bites his lip and stares down at Oswald, uncertainly.

Oswald can guess what he is going to offer, and for the sake of his sanity, he forces a smile on his face, bringing his arms down by his sides in a more natural pose. “No, I’m fine,” he assures him, hastily. “Really.”

Fate and circumstance have conspired against him, however, because he takes a step forward and his knee gives out. He manages to catch himself against his desk, palm splayed out on the surface, still smudged from their sweat and _other_ things. The stumble is _obvious_ , inescapable, and Ed reaches out to grasp him firmly by the elbow.

“You’re not fine,” he says, darkly. “Don’t lie.”

Unfair, _unfair_. Bitterness wells up in Oswald’s chest and he spits: “I don’t _need_ to tell you _anything_.”

The expression that crosses Ed’s face is pettish and frustrated. “No, you don’t. But I can tell you’re lying, so to pretend otherwise is an exercise in futility.”

He can’t believe Ed’s gall. The goddamn hypocrisy! “Oh, _I_ see,” Oswald says sharply. “So the next time I know _you’re_ lying, I should call you out, Ed? Is that what you’re saying?”

Ed freezes, his hand on Oswald’s elbow turning to stone. He stares down at Oswald, who’s still hunched over the edge of the desk awkwardly, with wide eyes, his expression just short of horrified.

Pain forgotten, Oswald abruptly straightens, forcing his own expression into a semblance of an apology. This is _not_ the right tack to take with Ed. “My apologies,” he bites out. “You know how I get,” he adds, as flippantly as he can manage, “when my leg’s bothering me.”

“...Yes,” Ed says belatedly. He’s still staring down at Oswald with dread. Oswald sucks in a breath.

“Fine,” he says, throwing himself backward into his chair. Ed blinks at him, his arms hovering uselessly in the air and face still fearful. Oswald swallows. “You were going to offer to…” he trails off, finding the word “massage” to feel too dangerously intimate.

Evidently Ed can’t bring himself to say it, either. “Yes,” he says, stilted. “I’ll--” And he drops to his knees without warning, making Oswald’s breath catch in his throat, his heart stuttering painfully.

Ed rises to his haunches, but his stance is still deferential, his knees on either side of Oswald’s foot, bracketing his leg. Ed looks up at him, but the light glances off his glasses lenses, making his eyes difficult to read. “May I…” Ed says, but his hands are already cupping Oswald’s ankle, his fingers brushing the tongue of Oswald’s shoe. Oswald takes in a deep, shuddering breath, feeling himself tremble faintly at Ed’s delicate touch.

“Yes,” Oswald allows, and rests his hands on the armrests and shuts his eyes.

There’s a pause and then he can feel the warmth of Ed’s hands lift from his ankle, the faint tugs of the shoelace, and then Edward grips his ankle carefully in one hand as he eases his shoe off with the other. Oswald inhales shakily and squeezes his eyes shut even tighter as Ed rolls his trouser leg up his leg.

His hands are skilled, warm and dry, the skin of his palms whispering over Oswald’s leg, his touch firm but not painful. He obviously knows what he’s doing, the movements of his hands sure and _soothing_ , working out the tightness of Oswald’s tendons, relaxing his mangled knee and leg until it rests limp and heavy in Ed’s hands.

Oswald has people who care for him, but...he can’t remember the last time he’s been _touched_ , so simply and gently, and Ed probably just wants a second round but with his eyes shut he can almost...

Ed’s hands are warm and reassuring and _caring_ and Oswald feels like his chest is splitting open, his ribcage cracking to reveal his pulsing heart and the bitter, desperate longing buried within. He’s afraid to open his eyes--the moment he does, Ed will _know_ , won’t he? He can’t possibly look at Oswald’s _aching_ expression and dismiss it.

“Oswald?” Ed murmurs after some time. Belatedly, Oswald realizes he’s stopped, and his hands are resting softly on Oswald’s knee. He swallows.

His eyes are stinging. He can’t open them. Ed will _see_.

“Thank you.” His voice is rough, tear-clogged. Can’t Ed _tell_?

“You’re welcome.”

Oswald inhales slowly. Ed’s hands don’t move from his knee.

“Are you...tired?” Ed asks in a whisper.

“ _Yes_ ,” Oswald says, grasping desperately for a chance to explain himself. “I’m very tired. Thank you, Ed, but you’d better go now.”

There’s a pause where Ed is completely silent. Oswald feels the urge to open his eyes to check on him, but once he _does_ the tears will be dislodged and there will be no hiding it then.

“Okay then.” Is it his imagination? Does Ed sound disappointed? Was he hoping for round two?

Oswald waits until the door is shut securely behind Ed before he finally blinks his eyes open, staring up and at his ceiling. As he had _known_ , twin lines of tears fall from his eyes, and he lifts a cold, trembling hand to his cheek, feeling the pathetic tackiness to his skin.

With a sharp inhale he clasps his hand over his mouth, taut and angry, and shuts his eyes. Shedding tears for the Riddler. _Crying_ for Edward Nygma, his frame wracked by sobs-- _pathetic, pathetic,_ and he doesn’t even know which is stronger, the longing or the _love_.

~

“So how is the Riddler doing?”

Oswald glances up. Ivy’s hovering in the doorway, affecting a casual look. Behind her, through the open door, the crowd gains a little in volume as she waits there. Oswald narrows his eyes, looking her up and down, but he doesn’t see anything that piques his suspicion.

“Fine,” Oswald says slowly.

“He--” Ivy begins, then breaks off. She looks down as she steps inside, pulling the door shut behind her and cutting off the noise from the guests. She seems nervous, almost _upset_.

His heart thunders an uneven beat. “Did he do something?” Oswald demands, rising to his feet. “Ivy, has he--?”

“No!” she says hastily. “Sorry, no.”

“Then..” Oswald asks.

“--I just…” She steps inside his office, bringing the door shut behind her. “I just saw Harley.”

“Yes?” Oswald asks, sinking back into his chair. She makes her way over to his desk without looking up, and she scoops Fern up in her arms, burying her face in her fur. Oswald waits her out, eying her uncertainly, wondering what on earth she has in store for him _this_ time.

Ivy lifts her head up eventually, fixing Oswald with a determined gaze. “He’s more dangerous than you think,” she blurts out, and Oswald’s heart skips a beat. He leans in, watching her probingly, worried that Ed might have done something truly _reprehensible_ , despite her assurances.

“Ivy?” he asks, when she remains silent too long. “What is it?”

She bites her lip. “I know you keep telling me he’s an ally, but…apparently he has like, something wrong with him. I mean--” she shifts on her feet uncertainly, “--he has this thing where he doesn’t always know what he’s doing. Like he forgets.”

“What?”

“Like even if he’s your friend he can hurt you and he won’t even know.”

“Oh,” Oswald says. He feels a wave of relief, hilariously. At least it’s nothing he doesn’t already know. “Yes, thank you, Ivy. He told me.”

“He--” Ivy cuts herself off and her mouth drops open. “He _told_ you?” Fern leaps up and out of her arms, jumping from Oswald’s desk to the high shelf on the wall.

“Yes,” Oswald says. “But I appreciate you telling me. If I didn’t know I’d be concerned. Did…” he frowns. “Did Harley Quinn tell you?”

“Yeah,” Ivy says. “He _told_ you? On his own?”

“Well…” Oswald’s mind is too busy trying to assimilate this new information to respond. He brings his hand to his mouth automatically, breathing in deeply through his nose, his brow furrowing. Harley Quinn knows about Ed’s alter. Apparently she saw fit to warn _Ivy_ about it, probably after Ivy mentioned Ed in passing--he knows she’s not particularly _discreet_ and wouldn’t be surprised if she thought talking to Harley about him was appropriate. But _why_ would Harley know in the _first_ place? It isn’t something Ed _advertises_...

“Ozzie?”

Apparently he’s been silent too long. Oswald shifts his hand away just enough so that she can hear him clearly, fixing his gaze on the surface of his desk. “Do you know why she’s in Arkham?” he asks.

“Not _specifically_ , no, I…is something wrong, Ozzie?”

Not only was Ed conspiring with the Joker and Harley Quinn at some point, but they _knew_ about his alter. His “Riddler” persona is off-putting enough that no one would suspect something so far-fetched as _alternate personalities_ unless Ed _told_ them himself.

And Ed’s suspicious advice earlier...

_Who is trying to sabotage whom?_

And more importantly: _whose head is on the chopping block?_

Oswald lifts his hand back up to his forehead, rubbing his temples to ease the sudden headache. “No more so than usual, Ivy.” Should he...should he? Where is the priority... _life_ , of course, _life_. “You’re not wrong.”

“What?”

Oswald shuts his eyes. This decision feels _significant_ , and in a way, he’s _afraid_ of the consequences. “Ed is more dangerous than he seems. Please don’t…Ivy, for me…”

“Ozzie?”

“...keep your distance from him, too.” There’s a beat of silence, and he opens his eyes again to meet hers.

Her expression turns angry and horrified in a heartbeat. “You’re not going to, are you? You’ll tell _me_ to stay away but you won’t! Come on, if you really think he’s--”

“I can handle him,” Oswald says. “Ivy, I’ve known him for years now. And I’ll always--”

“Stop lying to me!” she yells, and Fern startles and leaps out of her arms. Ivy doesn’t spare her a glance. “Ozzie, I’m not a _child_ anymore!”

With a sharp, frustrated exhale, Oswald snaps: “ _Ivy_ \--”

“You’re _in love_ with him.”

Oswald’s breath disappears out from under him. Ivy’s face is tearful and fierce all at once, and with a sudden pang he remembers he loves her so dearly.

“You _are_ , aren’t you?” she demands, voice cracking.

Oswald stares at her, mouth open, heart racing in his chest.

He can’t lie to her, not like _this_. He tries to clear his throat, but the lump in his throat _hurts_. “Yes.”

She shuts her eyes with an expression that looks almost like relief. “I knew it,” she says faintly. “You’re so bad at lying.”

There are no words he can offer in response, so instead he watches her and waits. She inhales sharply after a moment, almost hiccuping. “Well?”

“Well what?” Oswald asks roughly.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Oswald lowers his gaze to the desktop before him. “Honestly, Ivy, I don’t know.”

He can hear the faint voices of the crowd through the door to his office. The ticking of the clock. Ivy’s uneven breaths.

“I need a drink,” Ivy says flatly.

Oswald knows what she means; it has nothing to do with alcohol at all. She’s testing the waters. Will he turn her down, as he would a child, and send her to her room? Will he pretend she said nothing? Will he insist on watching her?

Or will he allow her to take a step on her own into the cold dark of the Gotham city streets?

“Help yourself.”

He can’t meet her eyes, but he feels the shift in the room all the same. She doesn’t say anything in response, just turns on her heel and walks out of his office. When she opens the door, the sound of the crowd swells around him, cut off abruptly when she closes it behind her.

A little trilling meow.

He opens his eyes and stares up at Fern, meeting her gaze. She blinks at him and then settles, curling her tail around her legs.

Oswald shifts in his chair and rests his elbows on his desk. He shuts his eyes and drops his face into his hands, scrubbing over his expression and endeavoring to wipe away all the leftover tension. But it’s impossible--there’s too _much._

Oswald has been here before, on the knife’s edge, teetering between the familiar and the unknown.

But this time he’s not alone on his perch. Where will all the players fall? Oswald doesn’t know; he can only hope to catch the ones he loves before they hit the ground.

As for himself?

Well.

Best not to make any predictions.


	12. He's Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: **Depictions of violence in this chapter!**
> 
> I apologize deeply for how long it’s been since I updated, and I hope you enjoy. <3  
> ~R
> 
> Notes below regarding chapter spoilers, and my continued work on this fic. (I will be finishing it.)

There’s blood on the polished marble flooring.

Oswald inhales sharply and steps out of the elevator, shifting his grip on his cane so that he’s carrying it rather than using it to support him. He can’t hear his security forces, so the culprit either snuck past them or eliminated them--either way, he’s on his own.

The trail of blood is sparse--likely not a fatal wound. Oswald walks as quietly as he can manage, cursing the heel of his dress shoes as a too-quick step makes a squeaking noise against the floor.

A voice comes from around the corner.

“Oswald?”

Oswald’s heart skips a beat. “ _Damn_ it, Ed, can you stop _doing_ this?” he snaps, shifting his grip on his cane once again and dropping it to the floor with an irritated _clack_.

There’s no response. Despite himself, Oswald feels dread building in his chest. He picks up his pace, whirling around the corner and into the kitchen with unsteady speed.

Ed’s leaning with his elbows on the counter, holding a kitchen towel up to his mouth with his left hand as he searches through a drawer with his right. His suit is torn and blackened, his hair sweaty and tangled, falling out of its styling.

“Ed, what--what _happened_ to you?”

Ed tilts his head back toward Oswald and pulls the towel away from his face, just enough to uncover his mouth. “Just a little altercation,” Ed says. His nose is unbroken, but there’s a line of blood dripping from it, and as he grins too-cheerfully at Oswald it looks like he may have even chipped a tooth.

“Where’s the blood coming from?” Oswald demands sharply. “It’s not all from your nose.”

“Just a little graze,” Ed reassures him. “Left bicep.”

“A _bullet_ graze?” Oswald shrieks. Ed winces. “You don’t just--wander into my lounge with a _bullet graze_ and dig around in my _kitchen_ for a first aid kit!”

“I’m fine,” Ed protests, but then he bumps his elbow against the edge of the counter and gasps in pain, his eyes falling shut to slits.

“You--” Oswald breaks off, frustration coursing through him.

“I just wanted to stop somewhere safe. I apologize for scaring you.” Ed says it so honestly, so matter-of-factly, and Oswald hisses in irritation. He feels an instinctive urge to argue that he is _not_ , in fact, _scared_ ; but he knows that protesting will only make it more pathetically obvious.

“Why don’t I move you to one of the rooms, instead?” Oswald asks, the acidity in his tone disguising the way his voice trembles. “Maybe call for a physician. You could even get treatment, instead of bleeding all over my kitchen.”

“It can’t get out that I’m here,” Ed protests.

“It won’t,” Oswald begins, but Ed interrupts him.

“If Jimbo’s already figured out you’re willing to house me, it’s not safe.”

“No, I won’t let him get to you. It doesn’t matter if he knows you’re _here_ ,” Oswald insists. “He hasn’t gotten to you before.”

“What if he has reasonable suspicion?”

“On what _grounds_?”

“He could claim he followed me here.”

“Why would that--”

“ _Because I was fighting him_.”

Oswald falls silent, staring at Ed, dumbfounded. He couldn’t possibly have been so _stupid_ as to--

“It was just a little skirmish,” Ed whines, no doubt reading the expression of disapproval on Oswald’s face.

“Ed, I--I _specifically_ told you not to do that! Am I losing my damn mind? I told you to get Jim off your tail, you--you--and instead you let him shoot you and led him here! You’ve got a gunshot wound, Ed, why the hell are we arguing right now?”

Ed turns back around, and for a moment Oswald thinks he’s turning his back on Oswald like a petulant child. But then he starts shuffling through the drawer again, and Oswald snaps: “ _No_ , I don’t have a kit capable of dealing with a gunshot wound in my _kitchen_ , Ed. Wait--just wait here.”

Ed sighs breathily, and Oswald can see his shoulders trembling even with the distance between them. But he doesn’t protest, so Oswald rushes from the room to collect the much more complete first aid kit from his office.

~

When he returns, Ed’s seated on a stool, resting his forehead in his right hand, his left arm dangling by his side.

“Arm,” Oswald orders, reaching out to loop his fingers around Ed’s left wrist. “Well, this suit jacket is ruined.”

Ed’s head is hanging low, like a scolded dog’s, even as Oswald takes the scissors from the kit and begins to cut the arm of his jacket off along the shoulder seam. Oswald’s lip twitches, a little remorse winding its way up from his heart into his throat. He swallows against the lump.

“I suppose I’ll replace it,” Oswald monologues as he peels away the bits of fabric that have stuck to his wound. Ed flinches with each one, his pain obvious. “After all, I took the scissors to it.”

He gives up as Ed refuses to respond, instead busying himself cleaning the wound and then wrapping it, meticulously. He only hopes that Ed will take as much care of it as he had taken care of Oswald’s bullet wound, all those years ago.

And then it’s done: Ed looks a mess, still dirty and ragged, one sleeve gone, a bandage wrapped around his bicep. Oswald’s beginning to doubt he’ll stay awake much longer: he was most likely up all night, and it’s nearing eight a.m.

“There, done,” Oswald says.

Ed fixes his gaze onto the middle distance. “Thank you,” he says, voice still muted and pathetic. “I’ll go.”

“What? I said I’ll set up a room for you!”

“I didn’t mean to cause you trouble,” Ed says. “I’ll go.”

“At _least_ sleep a _few_ hours,” Oswald demands, reasonably, but Ed shakes his head vigorously. He scoops up the dismembered sleeve of his jacket and tucks it in his pocket. Oswald stares, shocked utterly silent for a moment, then darts his hand out to land on Ed’s cheek, attempting to both force eye contact and soothe him. Ed’s cheek is hot and tacky with dried sweat, stubble scratching Oswald’s palm.

“Jim will find me--and hold you accountable,” Ed insists, finally turning his gaze onto Oswald.

“No--” How is this spinning out of his control so thoroughly? He’s not about to send Ed _away_ , not when he’s injured like this. Why is Ed being so ridiculously stubborn? He’s bloody and bruised and Oswald isn’t about to let him wander the damn streets, not with the GCPD hot on his tail and the Joker potentially after him as well.

He can--

Ed nuzzles vaguely into Oswald’s hand, his soft curls catching on Oswald’s fingers.

He shouldn’t. But he _can_ \--

Ed’s eyes slip shut, his dark lashes fanning out against his cheekbones. His right cheek is beginning to darken to a lurid purple-green, and Oswald feels a pang as he considers how it must ache.

“My suite.”

Ed looks up at him, eyes wide and stricken. “What?” There’s a little blood dripping from the left corner of his mouth, and unthinkingly Oswald reaches out to wipe it away with his thumb.

“No one can get into my penthouse.”

Ed’s tongue darts out to the spot that Oswald just wiped. Oswald concentrates on the sight, refusing to acknowledge the ground he’s just willingly given up. The last rule: the last stand. Ed definitely understands what this means: his expression is guilty, knowing. In the face of his pain, Oswald is waving the white flag.

“Are you sure?” Ed asks.

Oswald shuts his eyes and concentrates on the smooth heat of Ed’s cheek in his palm. “Yes,” he says. The word tastes ashen in his mouth.

~

Oswald doesn’t look at Ed as he enters the suite after him, doesn’t pause to watch Ed stop in the doorway and stare in obvious curiosity around the room. He doesn’t want it to feel real.

He cannot help the terrible, cruel hope in his chest. But that’s the way of hope, isn’t it? It toys with him. Every time he thought he escaped its grasp, he had turned and found Edward just behind him, always present, even if out of sight.

Ed kisses him before the macabre thoughts can sweep him away, slowly, warmly, mouth almost feverishly hot and tasting like the unique tang of adrenalin. Oswald wraps his hand around the nape of Ed’s neck, dragging him lower and closer, his fingers tangling in the short hairs there. It’s strange that Ed is already growing hard against him, when he’s so obviously wearied, but Oswald knows better than to examine it too closely, to search his expression. Search it for something that isn’t there.

What is he, to imagine he understands a fraction of Ed’s feelings? Is he something more than a man?

Ed makes a soft, high-pitched noise, and Oswald feels Ed’s hands on his waist, warm and fluttering, beginning to tug the edges of Oswald’s shirt from underneath his belt. He lets Ed undress him--there is no point in lying or pretending--Ed already holds his heart in his hands. Perhaps the only reason he has not yet crushed it is that he is unaware of its presence.

With a sudden certainty, Oswald knows that he wants Ed inside him. Oswald wants Ed’s nervousness when he enters him, his eagerness to impress. Oswald wants Ed trembling on top of him, overwhelmed by the sensations.

And so he drags Ed backward, luring him deeper into his bedroom, and Ed follows with luminescent eyes and a nervous exhale. Oswald takes another step back and Ed follows, his arm reaching out, searching for Oswald’s touch.

Instead Oswald topples back onto his bed, the mattress bouncing as he does so, blankets enveloping him warmly. Ed looks down at him from the edge of the bed, uncertainty in his every exhausted feature.

Oswald lifts up his hand, beckoning, and without a pause Ed tumbles on top of him, graceless as always, his long limbs tangling in each other. Oswald doesn’t wait for him to settle, clinging to his forearms and situating him astride Oswald. As Ed squirms, Oswald slides his arms around Ed’s back to tug him down until he lays flush against Oswald. There’s a harsh exhale next to Oswald’s ear and the hard press of Ed’s erection against him; Oswald sighs and presses his lips to Edward’s neck, sensing the verve and vigor pulsing through the other man’s blood.

The undressing is practiced, ritualistic, a play of give and take of buttons and hands and legs and heavy knit fabric. Oswald knows without thinking when to pause the motions of his hands to allow Ed to unfasten, shuffle, to peel away the protective layers until they are both laying bare in the bed--in _Oswald’s_ bed, the one place he’d never thought he’d have Ed.

Oswald’s last stronghold.

Ed hisses through his teeth as he tries to rise up onto his elbows, and abruptly Oswald remembers the injury to his arm. He twists underneath Ed, pressing himself up until Ed falls to the surface of the mattress beside him, their legs entangled, face to face.

“What?” Ed breathes.

Oswald doesn’t bother to reply, pressing his lips to Edward’s and tasting the heat and leftover adrenalin on his lips and in his mouth, sour but _alive_. Ed melts, an exhale from his nose tickling Oswald’s cheek, and Oswald fists his hands into the sheets as he presses firmly against Ed, the heat of him all but overwhelming.

Chasing Ed’s taste, Oswald lowers his lips to Ed’s chin, and then his neck, sweat tangy on his tongue. Ed squirms and Oswald bares his teeth, pressing faint indents into Ed’s neck. Ed pushes up against it, his hand scrabbling against Oswald’s shoulder, as if he wants Oswald to bite down until he draws blood. Oswald closes his mouth, instead, resting his nose against Ed’s jawline and exhaling unsteadily. Ed’s fingers continue to dig into his shoulder, sharp nails marking into his flesh.

“Oswald, I want--” Edward’s words flutter against Oswald’s temple, his breath uneven.

Oswald doesn’t want to hear it. He _can’t_ hear it. With a faintly trembling hand Oswald covers Ed’s mouth, feeling Ed’s hot breaths against the skin of his palm. “Shh,” Oswald orders intently, and feels Edward’s lips tremble against his palm. He tugs Ed’s face, tilting his own up until he can meet Ed’s eyes, searching their glittering depths for...and giving up, attempting instead to curve his own lips into a smile. Ed’s breath catches when he does so.

It’s so different, now, from the first time--when Oswald had refused to look Ed in the eye, when Oswald had refused to call Ed by his name. Their breaths are intermingling and their limbs are entwined and Oswald feels incredibly, woefully brave and _stupid_ , Ed’s gaze warm and astonished and teary with _something_.

“Don’t say anything,” Oswald murmurs.

“Okay.”

“Just--kiss me.”

Ed darts forward, Oswald’s hand slipping from his face as Ed presses his lips against Oswald’s, and they fall into the familiar rhythm of their kiss, sharp teeth and shaky breaths.

Together, as if briefly of one mind, they roll over. Oswald spreads his legs so that Ed fits between them, and reaches across the expanse of the bed until he can pull open his nightstand drawer. Ed notices and scrambles to dig for the bottle of lube and, finding it, makes eye contact with Oswald questioningly.

Oswald rolls his eyes and presses his pelvis up, spreading his legs to expose himself. “Hurry up,” he mutters under his breath, harried and wild, and Ed makes a shattered little sound before fumbling open the lube and spreading it over his fingers and hesitantly, Oswald’s opening.

And when Ed’s finished opening him up, his fingers warm and slick, Oswald rolls his hips forward. Ed fumbles and brings his erection to press between Oswald’s cheeks and inside him, hard and hot, splitting Oswald open and expelling the breath from his lungs. Ed trembles over him as he fills him, his arms and his torso shivering as if a leaf caught in the breeze, his cock pressing deeply inside Oswald.

Oswald squeezes down on him, and Ed shudders, his pupils blown large as he focuses his desperate gaze on Oswald.

“Are you waiting for me?” Oswald asks. “Make me come, Ed.”

The thrusts begin slowly, forcefully, Ed’s entire body quaking with each desperate forward movement, his mouth caught in a half-gasp as his gaze pierces Oswald. Oswald shuts his eyes and pushes his chest forward, rolling back his shoulders and digging his fingers into the tangled bedsheets. Ed’s thrusts catch him in a half-anticipated series of movements, Ed’s eagerness offsetting Oswald’s own ragged inhalations.

As the movement and moment catches, bright, scintillating electricity passes through Oswald, his entire body shaking under the onslaught of sensation. His breath escapes him in a gasp, Ed’s cock pressing against him _just right_ , his nails scoring livid lines across Ed’s back.

Ed makes a desperate and delighted noise against his temple, and Oswald yanks him down, encouraging his continuing thrusts even as Oswald rides out his own orgasm, until Edward finally reaches his, his heat entering Oswald and filling him.

The thought of meeting his gaze hurts and so Oswald clings to his neck and drags him down as he comes, and Oswald tastes the relief and exhaustion on Ed’s lips as he fills him.

And the kiss ends.

And Ed pulls out, and collapses down beside Oswald on the bed, his face buried in one of Oswald’s pillows.

And everything is...still.

“It smells like you,” Ed murmurs sleepily.

Oswald doesn’t respond. He watches Ed through a hazy, half-lidded gaze as Ed’s eyes slowly slip shut. His chest rises and falls with a quiet, slow certainty that floods Oswald with envy.

How dare he sleep. How dare he rest easy. How dare he...be so easy to love.

Oswald knows it is his own hope that will doom him. It always has been.

~

There’s blood on the polished marble flooring.

Heart thundering in his chest, Oswald stumbles from the elevator. The floor underneath him is slippery, slick with blood, and he falls to his knees, barely catching himself with his hands. He lifts them up to his face.

The blood clings to his hands, viscous. Oswald shakes them, but the blood won't come _off_.

He looks up, and-- _oh god_ \--it’s _Ed_ , sprawled across the floor of the Iceberg, unnaturally still. Oswald scrambles to his feet and throws himself upon Ed, pressing his face into Ed’s lapel. There’s no breath there, no heartbeat. No life. Oswald sobs, clinging to Ed’s suit jacket with trembling hands, feeling the steady flow of blood drip from his body, leaving him an empty shell. A wail builds up in his throat, crawling up to _choke_ him.

And then he wakes up.

His face is pressed into Ed’s shoulder, and he’s shaking from head to toe. There’s a series of sharp pinpricks of pain in his shoulder, then a cold tickling nose pressed against his ear. Fern.

A throaty noise escapes him, and he pushes himself off of Ed and onto his back beside him. Fern falls from his shoulder and lands on the mattress next to him, her tail fluffed out indignantly. Oswald brings a hand to his forehead and scrubs at the cold sweat gathered there, feeling nauseous and ill.

It’s been _years_ since he’s had a nightmare--he typically sleeps dreamless and deep, now. He concentrates on steadying his breath, the cold thrill of dread settling somewhere in his gut. Something, he’s not sure what, makes him look over at the other side of the bed, and what he sees makes his heart _ache_.

It’s _Ed_ , looking peaceful and vulnerable in sleep, his hair falling across his forehead and making him look just as young as he’d been when they’d first met.

Oswald’s love is a living thing, buried deep in his chest. It can rest, warm and comforting, a second heart to keep his own company; it can _burn_ , passionately and fervently; and it can unsheath its claws and tear him apart from the inside out.

Fern turns her back on him, offended, and leaps to the nightstand.

Oswald imitates her, rolling over and throwing the bedsheets off of himself. He glances at the clock--2 p.m.--but there’s no chance he’s falling asleep again now. Not with _that_ sight behind his eyelids.

He dresses, perfunctorily, in presentable but unremarkable clothes. No point in waking Ed--it’s better to let him sleep. No, he’ll go down and get coffee for them both. And perhaps...perhaps, when Ed wakes…

Perhaps he’ll dredge up the courage to--if not to _tell_ Ed, at least to acknowledge what _this_ means. Having him here. In Oswald’s home, in his bed.

~

There’s a figure by the bar. The lights are off, so they’re only distinguishable by silhouette. Regardless, Oswald knows who it is.

“He’s here,” the figure says darkly.

Oswald’s heart sinks to his gut and rests there, thudding. “It’s late,” he says. He feels faint, and clenches his hand into a fist in an attempt to ground himself. He doubts the movement goes unnoticed. “You can’t exactly claim to have followed him here.”

Jim leans his elbow on the bar counter, but doesn’t move. “I kinda thought you’d say that.”

“I didn’t know I was that predictable,” Oswald responds acidically.

“Not to most,” Jim says, the implied _but I’m the exception_ hanging in the air like the stench of backed-up plumbing. Oswald’s lip twitches, and he considers, briefly, the joy that would accompany the burst of rage--but he tempers himself, as he usually does with Jim.

“How fortuitous,” he replies noncommittally, and walks in the direction of the kitchen, hardly sparing Jim a glance. Jim waits in silence for several heartbeats before following him; he hears the sound of Jim’s rubber soles squeaking against the freshly-cleaned marble flooring. Oswald can’t help but glance back toward him.

For a moment, Oswald’s vision is darkened red--then it clears. Jim is staring at him expectantly.

He’s too confident. Oswald swallows thickly and continues to the kitchen.

“You’ll probably want to sit for this,” Jim says finally.

Oswald yanks open a cabinet and snags a coffee mug. As Jim continues to watch him, he carries it over to the espresso maker in the corner. Jim clears his throat.

“I’m serious, Oswald.”

“So am I, _friend_.” There’s a bitter edge to his voice, one he hasn’t bothered to hide. “Based on your tone, I will soon have a dire need for caffeine. I may as well preempt that.”

“Oswald.”

Oswald sets the coffee mug down and flips the switch on the espresso machine.

“This can all go away if you tell me where he is.”

Before he knows what he’s doing, Oswald has turned, his right hand on the knife hidden up his left sleeve. His muscles are tensed, but so are Jim’s--he’s staring at Oswald’s hands, ready to pounce the moment Oswald does.

Oswald bares his teeth, pulse racing in his throat. “ _Why don’t you try to find out_?” he snarls.

“I intend to,” Jim says darkly. But he doesn’t move an inch.

Oswald holds, meeting Jim’s eyes, feeling his own desperation bubbling up in their depths. After a long moment, Jim’s expression falters, sudden exhaustion lining his face. Oswald feels a terrifying thrill run through him.

“He was my friend too,” Jim says softly, and a terrible, shuddering breath escapes Oswald. “Not many of us are still around. From then.”

“Yes, Jim,” Oswald says, the crack in his voice belying the sarcasm. “Let’s all reminisce about those times gone by.” His voice breaks completely midway through, and his gaze is completely shrouded with tears.

The espresso maker beeps.

Jim inhales.

“You already know what I’m going to say,” Jim says.

“Of course I do,” Oswald replies. He turns toward the espresso machine: a futile attempt to save face. Jim knows him too damn well. “She hasn’t done a damn thing to deserve it, you sadistic bastard.”

“We got an anonymous tip-off. Info was too good not to use.”

“She’s a _child_.”

“It’s not Blackgate.”

“No, it’s _not_ Blackgate,” Oswald snarls. He yanks the coffee mug from the machine, spilling some over the edge and scalding himself in the process. He doesn’t flinch. “It’s far worse, Jim. You don’t know what it’s like--if you’d _listen_ to me for once in your life you’d know. If I’d known Arkham existed as a child, I would have paid more attention in Sunday School, Jim. It’s _hell on earth_.”

“This isn’t my call!” Jim yells. “You think I wanna send her there? All her documentation lists her as _twenty-seven_ , Oswald. Your doing, I guess!”

“And yet,” Oswald hisses, slamming the mug down on the counter and whirling on his heel to face the other man. “And _yet_ , in typical Jim Gordon fashion, you will only act morally when it supports your _own_ interests. You will only act _legally_ when it supports your own interests.”

“Do you know how many of my colleagues--my _friends_ \--he’s killed? Do you?”

Oswald breath is coming in heaving gasps, and so are Jim’s. “Twelve!” Oswald shouts. “There’s twelve. How many of _my_ friends have you and your cronies driven mad in a malicious and incompetent institution, Jim? How many!”

“I didn’t know you had friends! Aren’t people just _tools_ to you?”

Oswald slams his fist onto the counter. The mug trembles. Jim doesn’t flinch. “You would be _dead_ a thousand times over if it weren’t for me, Jim!”

“And so would you without me, Oswald! I think we may as well call it even on that front!”

“And what does that make _you_?” Oswald asks fiercely.

There is too much emotion in his eyes, he’s certain--but briefly Jim falters. Briefly, Jim’s expression is doubting, unsure. Oswald’s heart is heavy in his chest. What must it be like, to look at a monster like Oswald and see oneself reflected there?

Then Jim’s expression hardens, and the moment is gone. “You know what you need to do for me to release her, Oswald. I hope you make the right choice.”

“Fuck you, Jim,” Oswald rasps.

Jim gives him a grim look and leaves, the door swinging shut behind him. A heartbeat passes in total silence.

Oswald reaches out without thinking and picks up the coffee mug, hurling it at the opposite wall. It explodes spectacularly, shards of ceramic and splashes of coffee flying. “ _Fuck_!”

The door swings back open. “Boss! Everything all right?”

Oswald subsides instantly, leaning back against the counter. He lowers his head to stare at the floor, his unstyled hair falling forward across his forehead. “Oh, sure,” he says, the words coming from somewhere outside himself. He rests his shaking hand against the counter. “Just peachy.”

The security guard comes closer, unassuming and blunt. “That was the police guy you didn’t want coming, right? I swear he didn’t come through my way, I don’t know--”

The man stops talking, but that’s only because Oswald’s knife is buried in his gut. He gurgles, instead, as Oswald drags his knife up, up through the guts and viscera, slicing him open.

With Oswald’s shove, he tips backward and falls to the floor, his head _cracking_ on the surface. His eyes are still open and it seems like he’s stopped breathing. Oswald drops the knife. It clatters to the floor and lays there.

He lifts his hand to his cover his mouth, his blood-saturated palm wetting his lips. It’s warm, viscous, and briefly Oswald wishes he could submerge himself in it, a sensory deprivation tank. Then he lowers his hand.

Mechanically, he turns and washes his hands off in the sink--the cuff of his shirt was stained. It’s no doubt ruined. He spots his cane on the floor and decides it’s not worth the pain to bend over and pick it up. He darts his tongue out and tastes the blood on his lip.

He stares down at the corpse. Okay. What’s next?

Change of clothes. Then the police station.

He heads back to the elevator, skirting around his cane and the corpse alike. Someone else can handle it.

~

He opens his bedroom door and singlemindedly heads toward the closet, ignoring the long shape of Edward Nygma out of the corner of his eye. Ed rises to his feet, and calls out: “Whose blood’s that?”

“No one important,” Oswald mutters instinctively, but it’s unintentionally quiet and he doesn’t know if Ed can hear.

He yanks open his closet doors and unearths an outfit he’d put together for a later time. He shrugs off his jacket and begins to unbutton his shirt.

“Oswald?” Ed pursues. “What happened?”

“A _moment_ ,” Oswald snaps, and Ed falls silent behind him as Oswald finishes changing.

Oswald breezes past him again, on his way to the ensuite. He pauses at the sight of himself in the mirror, the already-drying blood streaked across his face. He wets a washcloth and wipes it off, meticulously.

Finally he leaves the ensuite and stops by the window, staring out at the skyline. Ed must have drawn the curtains back. The afternoon sun is weak, day overcast and grayish. He takes in a deep, unsteady breath.

“Oswald?”

“Jim’s taken Ivy to the station,” Oswald explains briskly. “I need to go and make sure she’s all right.”

There’s no response.

“She’ll be transferred to Arkham,” Oswald says. It’s difficult to force the words out: he can feel his throat tightening and his eyes burning. “Since she’s been under my protection, she--” he swallows, harshly.

He finally turns to face Ed, and--“What are you doing with those?” he snaps, pain briefly forgotten.

Spread out on the bed is Oswald’s secret collection--the newspaper clippings. He’d even gone back and gotten some older ones from the library, of the time they’d spent together--Ed has them spread out in chronological order on the mattress. A veritable confession note.

“Relax, Ozzie, he still doesn’t know. He blitzed out when we found them.”

Oswald’s gaze darts up to Ed’s face--he’s smiling calmly, but there’s a now-familiarity opacity to his eyes. Oswald scowls. “It’s _you_.”

“Yup,” Not-Ed says, popping the “p”. He remains a distance away, his hands slipped into the front pockets of his wrinkled trousers, which hang off his hips in a way that should not still be tantalizing.

Oswald grits his teeth. “You--you do _not_ get to--” Oswald waves his hand, jerkily. “--to _whatever_ right now. I--I can’t deal with this.” He _knows_ he’s being reckless with the alter, but he feels on edge, as if electricity has been shot through his veins, making the little hairs on his arms and his neck stand up.

“The girl’ll be _fine_ , Oswald. What’d she do, get caught? That’ll teach a better lesson than sheltering her will.”

“It was a tip-off,” Oswald snaps, then cuts himself off, shaking his head sharply. “It doesn’t matter. I--”

“--an anonymous tip-off?” Not-Ed demands. In his pockets, his hands have balled up into fists.

“Yes,” Oswald bites out. “More likely than not, Jim or one of his idiotic compatriots. That’s beside the point. Just--just wait here while I try to take care of this. If there’s _anyone_ in the afterlife watching over me you’ll be gone by the time I’m back,” Oswald adds under his breath, throwing a glance toward the ceiling.

There’s a pause for a moment, before Oswald begins moving toward the door, before Not-Ed says anything. For that moment, the room feels deafeningly quiet. Then, Oswald takes a step. _Then_ , Not-Ed speaks.

“Oh, _Ozzie_ ,” Not-Ed says, his voice dripping with saccharine condescension. “You’re so _blind_ , you idiot.”

Oswald blanches and rears back, briefly stunned. “What the _hell_ \--”

“I thought for sure you’d put it together after _this_ ,” Not-Ed waves his arm in a grand gesture, indicating Oswald’s room, the _bed_ , “but evidently you’re just as willfully ignorant as you’ve _always_ been.”

_What is_ that _supposed to mean_ , Oswald doesn’t say--his mouth won’t move.

Not-Ed rolls his eyes theatrically. “ _Who_ was the first one to slip up on the names?” he demands.

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“Between you and _him_.”

Oswald feels a shock of cold pass through him, like ice in his veins. His vision blurs for a moment. “That--that was me,” Oswald says. “We--we--I called him Ed when we were--”

“ _He called you Oswald first_.”

Oswald blinks. “No--”

“I have an _eidetic memory_. He said: ‘Please Oswald,’” Not-Ed whines, his voice breathy and desperate, a perfect imitation of Ed in the throes of passion, “‘I need--I need--Fuck me, please, please fuck me.’”

“He--”

“And then you said, ‘I will,’” Not-Ed says, bobbing his head a little in a mocking movement. ‘Do you like this, Ed? Is this what you wanted?’ And it _was_ , Ozzie; it was what he wanted.” Not-Ed is baring his teeth, distaste coloring his tone. 

Oswald stares at him. He can’t--

“And then the next time--he fucking _sat_ on you so you couldn’t escape. So he could stay the night. His whole _goal_ that night, Oswald, was to _stay_. What were the other rules? Remind me, Ozzie.”

Oswald clears his throat. “No--no telling anyone else about it, no discussing the past, and--no staying in my suite. And disclosing any--”

Not-Ed waves a hand, cutting him off. “That was _his_ rule; he didn’t want you to break _that_. Think back; when did you tell someone else?”

“I told Cat--”

“-- _because she already knew_.”

How does Ed--Ed doesn’t know that. Oswald never _told_ Ed that Cat and Ivy know, Oswald--

He falls back against the wall, and distantly the impact rattles his frame.

“Because he _kissed_ you in public. He _knew_ her agent was there. And later, _he_ redirected the conversation from being about--” Not-Ed gestures down himself, dramatically, “-- _yours truly_ to being about your shared history. And--”

Oswald swallows. “--he showed up injured, and--”

“--more or less _begged_ you to let him up here,” Not-Ed finishes. His teeth are rounded and even and white like tombstones. Oswald finds himself staring at them, mindlessly, as Not-Ed flashes him a not-happy grin. “Oswald, he’s been sabotaging your little rules since the beginning. And you’ve been too damn _besotted_ to see it.”

Oswald inhales.

This is it.

The culmination of everything he’s feared.

Not-Ed is watching him with eyes like dirty pennies, all the glint and verve gone, leaving cold emptiness in their wake.

_Again._

Not _again_.

Oswald shuts his eyes. “I need to go. I need to make sure she’s all right.”

“Fine,” the alter ego says. When Oswald opens his eyes, the other Ed is standing with a scowl, arms crossed.

“I’ll be back shortly,” Oswald says, and turns on his heel to go.

The alter doesn’t call out after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re curious, a little more about the rule breaking:  
> 1\. No calling each other by their real names: Not-Ed quotes directly from Chapter Two. Oswald only calls him “Ed” aloud after Ed calls him “Oswald”.  
> 2\. They can’t tell anyone: Some of you readers noted Ed seemed out of character in his forceful kiss in Chapter Eight. He was putting on a show for Cat’s informant and making sure what they were doing was unmistakable.  
> 3\. No discussing their past friendship: It’s true that Ed redirected the conversation in Chapter Nine from being about his alter to being about their past friendship.  
> 4\. Never spending the night in the Penguin’s penthouse: Ed did show up at the Iceberg injured for that very reason in this chapter.  
> 5\. No spending the night at all: In Chapter Three, Oswald notes that Ed pretty much sits on him and “trap[s him] in his own chair”. That is more accurate than Oswald was aware.  
> 6\. They have to disclose any other dalliances: As Not-Ed said, Ed did not want Oswald to break this one, of course.
> 
> I have, unfortunately, not really had any interest in Gotham since the disastrous 4x11, and I’ve only seen one episode from S4B. I will finish this fic, but it is difficult to motivate myself to do so in the meantime.
> 
> I am, however, writing an original story based on My Sweetest Friend, set in Prohibition-era America, that I hope to self-publish! If I do, I will be sure to let all of you know. In the meantime, rest assured that this fic will be finished, although it will take a while.


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